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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767692">A Better Version of Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mormonhippie/pseuds/Mormonhippie'>Mormonhippie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Be More [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Be More Chill - Ned Vizinni</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Artificial Intelligence, Asexuality Spectrum, Bisexual Character (s), Death of minor character, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, book!squip needs more love, musical versions of characters to make appearance later in series, primarly book characters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:27:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>42,488</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767692</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mormonhippie/pseuds/Mormonhippie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What they've said is, "Lets not worry about all the great things quantum computers can do. Let's just make a simple one and take advantage of the fact that it can be tiny, and try to manufacture a sort of ingestible Palm Pilot™..." </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-Harvey Dinglesnort</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jeremy Heere's Squip/Jake Dillinger, Jeremy Heere/Christine Caniglia, Jeremy Heere/Jeremy Heere's Squip, Michael Mell/Nicole, more parings to be added - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Be More [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. AN UNPRECEDENTED FAILURE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my self indulgent fix-it fic for the Be More Chill novel. It's not gonna be a quick fix, I have 20 chapters in first draft for Part 1 of the series and more planned. I will be releasing them between now and October 2020.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[JEREMY, I'M SORRY]</p>
<p>“You better be sorry!” Jeremy is screaming at the top of his lungs now, running around the parking lot of Middle Borough High School. As if I existed outside of him and he could attack me, as if he could physically run away and escape. His blood pressure is dangerously high, the arteries along the base of his brain are pressing against me. I'm no more trapped in his skull than I've always been, but it's times like these when I feel like I am. Jeremy probably looks like he's having a psychotic episode. He's in distress, and it's all my fault. </p>
<p>[I'M FAULTY. I'M BADLY PROGRAMMED. GET VERSION 4.0 WHEN IT COMES OUT. I'M DEPRECIATED.]</p>
<p>“That doesn't help now! You ruined my life.” Spit flies from his mouth and he flails wildly.</p>
<p>[I KNOW, I KNOW—] </p>
<p>“You know? That's not what you're supposed to say! You're supposed to say, “It's actually not that bad Jeremy” and give me advice on how to fix it!”</p>
<p>[WELL, YOU HAVE NO OPTIONS, SO I HAVE NO ADVICE. THAT WAS AN UNPRECEDENTED FAILURE. I HAD TO DO A TEMPORARY SHUTDOWN. WHEN SHE DIDN'T KISS YOU, I COULDN'T COMPUTE. I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO HELP YOU NOW.]</p>
<p>“Why not?” </p>
<p>The whine in his question is vexing. I've already told him why! Jeremy's behaving like he's a child and I'm the adult, the authority figure who has all the answers. The adult who can explain the whole world to him, and everything that happens in it, and what it all means. And all the child has to do is listen and obey. But it's never been that simple because Jeremy is not a child anymore, and I am certainly no adult. </p>
<p>Jeremy is still running back and forth through the parking lot. His friend Michael is still waiting patiently, watching the madness unfold as he leans against the giant wombat painted along the side of the building. He calls out to Jeremy as he runs past, and (amazingly) comes up with what sounds like a viable solution to our problem:</p>
<p>“Tell Christine about the squip.”</p>
<p>It's so brilliant. I wonder why I didn't think of it? Am I still operating under the illusion that I have dignity to preserve? </p>
<p>[HE'S GOT AN ANGLE.] I tell Jeremy. </p>
<p>Jeremy comes up with objections, but Michael and I bring him around. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don't even remember the whole story.” Jeremy gives one last protest.</p>
<p>[I DO. I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. PERFECTLY.]</p>
<p>And I tell him about how I catalog his brain activity while he sleeps, and he parrots the information to Michael:</p>
<p>“It keeps logs of all my thinkings.” </p>
<p>“Thinkings?” There's a playfully mocking tone in Michael's voice that, somehow, I can appreciate. He's trying to do the same thing I am, he's trying to help Jeremy feel better.</p>
<p> Jeremy is having none of it though. </p>
<p>“Whatever.” He hits Michael in the shoulder with a balled fist; something between an actual punch and a love tap.</p>
<p>[I HAVE THEM ALL ON FILE, JEREMY. I'VE BEEN BUILDING SINCE YOU FIRST GOT ME. AT THIS POINT I HAVE YOUR COMPLETE MENTAL LOG FROM BACK WHEN YOU WERE FOURTEEN. I CAN TELL HER! I CAN SHOW HER THAT YOU REALLY LIKED HER FROM THE BEGINNING AND THAT IT WAS ALL MY FAULT.]</p>
<p>“How?”</p>
<p>[WE'VE GOT TO DO A DATA DUMP. TAKE ALL THE INFORMATION OUT OF YOUR SKULL AND GIVE IT TO HER.] </p>
<p>Jeremy relays the information to Michael and the three of us discuss format options for the transfer. Jeremy eventually comes up with...</p>
<p>“A book. She likes text. The letters from her dad...” He trails off, lost in a Christine-induced reverie before returning to the present. “And if I give that to her and she doesn't like it, she doesn't like me, and if she doesn't like me, at least she'll be not liking me for me, you know.”  </p>
<p>I do know. And somehow I'm glad that it was Jeremy that came up with this solution and not me, his observation about the letters is brilliant. Apparently Michael thinks so too because we both tell him so in unison. </p>
<p>We iron out the details for a few minutes before Jeremy asks the question that's been lingering behind this solution, the part of this conversation I've been waiting for since I recovered from the shutdown. I'm ready.</p>
<p>'Squip, uh, one more thing.' Jeremy thinks it to me, excluding Michael. 'What do we do when the book is finished?' </p>
<p>[YOU HAVE TO GET RID OF ME.] I tell him. [I'M NOT STABLE AFTER A DATA DUMP. AND I'M NOT REALLY THAT STABLE ANYWAY. AS YOU'VE SEEN.]</p>
<p>'Oh. But—'</p>
<p>Jeremy's thoughts trails off. The branch internal carotid artery that presses against me starts pulsing faster. His amygdala (which is situated right above me) lights up again and it feels very much like his rage of a few minutes ago. But in this case, fear is the likely cause. He didn't anticipate my solution, and he's come to personify me to such a degree he forgets that I lack his instinct for self-preservation. I need to reassure him:</p>
<p>[THERE ARE BETTER VERSIONS OF ME, JEREMY. IT'S NOT LIKE WITH PEOPLE. WITH PEOPLE YOU CAN ARGUE AND HAVE TESTS AND MUSIC REVIEWS AND WARS TO DECIDE WHO'S BETTER, BUT WITH SOFTWARE IT'S PRETTY CLEAR. I GET EVOLVED BEYOND MY VERSION NUMBER, AND THEN I'M USELESS.]</p>
<p>'So...'</p>
<p>His heartbeat returns to normal as he stares at empty space, and despite everything it feels really nice to have won an argument with Jeremy Heere.</p>
<p>'You're going to leave? But when are we going to write this book?'</p>
<p>[TONIGHT]</p>
<p>'Oh'</p>
<p>For a moment I think he's going to say more, but he doesn't so I continue:</p>
<p>[TONIGHT AND THEN YOU SHOULD FLUSH ME. YOU KNOW MOUNTAIN DEW CODE RED?]</p>
<p>'Yeah.'</p>
<p>[IT'S THE FAILSAFE. IF YOU DRINK A BOTTLE, I DISSOLVE.]</p>
<p>I explain to Jeremy. Jeremy relays the information to Michael, and as he does I feel his brain processing the past 60 minutes of emotional turbulence: from excitement and anticipation, to the disappointment of rejection, to sorrow and humiliation, to rage and fear, and finally this unexpected relief. The process has had a euphoric effect on my host...Jeremy actually laughs!</p>
<p>And then Michael laughs... </p>
<p>And I want to join in too, but I can't. I know how to laugh, I've even done it before. Absorbing some of Jeremy's elation would surely make the data dump and following the fail safe protocol easier, but I can't bring myself to do it. I've just experienced an unexpected shutdown, and I can't trust myself not to go through another if I attempt it. The parameter mismatch between myself and my user is reeking havoc on my systems. I can't laugh because, try as I might, I can't find the situation we've found ourselves in even the slightest bit humorous.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. MEATSUIT</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>“They only have Diet.” Michael informs us.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>[THAT'S FINE.]</i></p><p>  <i>“That will work.” Jeremy nods, reaching for his wallet, but I manipulate the vending machine's computer to release the Diet Mountain Dew before he can get it out of his pocket.</i></p><p>  <i>“You didn't need to do that.” Jeremy sounds indignant. </i></p><p>  <i>[WHY?]</i></p><p>  <i>“Because I have enough money!” </i></p><p>  <i>[SO?]</i></p><p>  <i>“So, you stole it.”</i></p><p>  <i>[AND YOU STOLE HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF BEANIE BABIES, JEREMY.] </i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was supposed to be the first section of a very long chapter that basically functioned as a director's commentary for the Novel. I had fun with it in the revision.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Normally I live around the base of Jeremy's brain, with extensions into his brainstem and cranial nerves. I have access to specific regions of Jeremy's cerebral cortex (like Broca's area) which are essential for the SQUIP-user interface, but for total-body takeover I need full brain access. And that means I have to get bigger. To that end, we make a pit stop to the school vending machine on our way to Michael's car. (Jeremy wants to walk home, but Michael insists on driving and I agree. We need to get Jeremy home as soon possible.)</p><p>“They only have Diet.” Michael informs us.</p><p>[THAT'S FINE.]</p><p>“That will work.” Jeremy nods, reaching for his wallet, but I manipulate the vending machine's computer to release the Diet Mountain Dew before he can get it out of his pocket.</p><p>“You didn't need to do that.” Jeremy sounds indignant. </p><p>[WHY?]</p><p>“Because I have enough money!” </p><p>[SO?]</p><p>“So, you stole it.”</p><p>[AND YOU STOLE HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF BEANIE BABIES, JEREMY.] </p><p>Jeremy shakes his head as he reaches for the drink. He leaves behind a small wad of change, the amount he would have spent on the soft drink. </p><p>'It's not right.'</p><p>[BUT IT IS, REALLY...]</p><p>Jeremy's sense of morality is something I've never been able to entirely grasp, probably because he has a hard time articulating it to himself. The money he's leaving behind isn't going to recompense a multi-million dollar company any more than one soft drink is going to damage them. </p><p>					                                                                                                                        	---------------</p><p> </p><p>On the drive home I grow extensions into relevant regions of Jeremy's brain, Jeremy drinks the Diet Mountain Dew and holds conversation with both me and Michael, separately. </p><p>“Listen I'm gonna go home and get some rest. I'll stop by Seven-Eleven and pick up some Code Red, meet up with you in the morning.” Michael says.</p><p>“Yeah, thanks.” Jeremy nods. And then he adds, “Do you think my parents are still up?”</p><p>“I don't know, man. Your dad stays up pretty late, doesn't he?” </p><p>“Do you think Mom's told him yet?”</p><p>His conversation with me, courtesy of his brain's capacity for parallel processing, takes place simultaneously: </p><p>'The data dump. It won't hurt this time, right?' </p><p>He's thinking of the first data dump, the one I performed on my initial start up. </p><p>[NO. I HAVE ACCESS TO YOUR PAIN RECEPTORS, SO I'M BLOCKING THAT SENSATION AND ENCOURAGING YOUR BRAIN TO RELEASE SERITONIN.] </p><p>'You're blocking my pain right now?'</p><p>[I NOTICED YOU WERE GETTING A MIGRAINE WHEN I REACTIVATED AND TOOK STEPS TO PREVENT YOU FEELING IT. YOU MAY NEED A TYLENOL TOMORROW MORNING, BUT ONCE I'M GONE YOU SHOULD BE FINE.]</p><p>'I'm kinda nervous. You said I'd have to be in a trance when you're writing, I've never been in a trance before.'</p><p>[SURE YOU HAVE.]</p><p>'I have?'</p><p>[A TRANCE IS JUST A MINDSET OF INTENSE FOCUS, TO THE EXCLUSION OF SOME DEGREE OF SELF AWARENESS. YOU ACHIEVE THIS STATE MANY TIMES A DAY WITHOUT THINKING ABOUT IT—BUT USUALLY FOR ONLY A FEW SECONDS OR MINUTES AT A TIME: WHEN YOU'RE AT SCHOOL, AND YOU CAN'T REMEMBER WHETHER OR NOT YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH THAT MORNING, OR WHEN YOU'RE READING A BOOK SO INTENTLY YOU FORGET WHERE YOU ARE, OR WHEN YOU'RE RIDING IN A CAR AND YOU BECOME SO MESMERIZED BY THE PASSING SCENERY AND FOLLOWING THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC THAT YOU FORGET THAT YOU'RE A PASSENGER IN A CAR AND NOT THE CAR ITSELF. YOU MAY NOT EVEN REMEMBER PASSING FAMILIAR LANDMARKS, STOPPING AT STOPLIGHTS, OR BREAKING FOR TRAFFIC BECAUSE YOUR BRAIN IS ON—]</p><p>'Autopilot' </p><p>[EXACTLY.] </p><p>Jeremy's still oblivious, so I add: [SOMETIMES YOU CAN HAVE A WHOLE CONVERSATION...] right as Michael's car stops in front of the Heere home. Jeremy comes back to full self awareness, amazed.</p><p>'That was it, wasn't it? That was a trance!?'</p><p>Jeremy can barely remember the rest of the conversation he just had with Michael: Michael offering to spend the night, Jeremy's refusal and insistence that he needs to deal with his parents on his own, Michael's promise that he'll be there first thing in the morning because he knows (from second hand experience, surely) that Jeremy, “Won't want to be alone” after his SQUIP is gone.</p><p>Now Michael is even calling Nicole to re-schedule their date. And that act alone obliterates any reservations I have about leaving Jeremy at the mercy of his limited universe. </p><p>[YES JEREMY, THAT WAS A TRANCE. THINK YOU CAN DO THAT FOR EIGHT HOURS?] </p><p>"Remember when we used to play video games all weekend? I can bring over some video games tomorrow.” Michael offers, after he's done with his phone call to Nicole.</p><p>Jeremy smiles, and responds to both of us: “I'm looking forward to it now.”</p><p> </p><p>					                                                                                                               	---------------</p><p> </p><p>We manage to make it to Jeremy's room without having to interact with his parents. The “Do Not Disturb—The Management” sign is still on the floor. Jeremy picks it up and places it back on the door for display, enters the room, and locks the door for good measure. </p><p>Linking my neural circuit to Jeremy's brain was even simpler than I'd anticipated. The scaffolding I constructed in the car is already complete, now we just have to turn it on. </p><p>Jeremy assumes a sitting position in front of the personal computer where he has enjoyed so many hours of pornographic content. We're working tonight, so I decide to take over before we turn it on to prevent distraction.</p><p>[YOU READY MAN?] I ask him, for the second time today. </p><p>'Born ready, SQUIP.' </p><p>I give him the command code to activate SQUIP-mediated brain function and initiate Data Dump sequence:</p><p>[Say, I D D Q D Enter]</p><p>“Eye-dee-dee-kew-dee-Enter”</p><p>The hardest part of what follows is coordinating input from a whole new set of sensory organs. For a few seconds it's almost overwhelming and I'm shutting down accessory system like sight, hearing and tactile sensation until I can lower my processing capacity to match frequency with Jeremy's brain. Then I reintegrate it (Jeremy's brain) into processing input data and encourage it to continue it's autonomic functions.</p><p>Once I'm not taking the entire neural load by myself, I bring Jeremy's accessory systems back online. Jeremy's muscles feel tense, like he just exercised a lot, and his lips are smacking together reflexively. But I do have access to Jeremy's whole brain, and I think it's worth just about any discomfort. </p><p>[Are you ok?!] </p><p>I know it's Jeremy talking to me, but his voice from the inside sounds mechanical. A bit like a SQUIP 1.0, before we got the celebrity avatars.</p><p>“I think this must be what it felt like when you drove your mom's car for the first time." I lean forward to start up the PC. "It takes some getting used to." The light from the monitor hits Jeremy's retina, it's blinding. I realize, squinting stupidly, we never turned on the light in Jeremy's room. We've been in the dark since we got out of Michael's car.</p><p>[I wasn't shaking when I drove my mom's car.]</p><p>Concern sounds strange coming from the warped, mechanical, Jeremy-voice.</p><p>“Uh. Yes you were.” I use Jeremy's facial muscles to spread his mouth into a wide grin. It hurts a little bit, but I can't help it. “Don't ask me to parallel process yet, but I'm actually really enjoying this."</p><p>[Really?]</p><p>"The only time I get to do anything remotely like this is when you're in REM sleep, which doesn't last very long. How are you handling?”</p><p>[The trance thing? It's weird. But like a nice weird, right? Like I'm not worried about anything: Not my parents, not what people at school think, not even Christine. It feels like it's...just us. Just you and me, here in this room. Right now. And we're all that matters.]</p><p>I pause, opening a blank word processor document. What he's saying, in his own ineloquent Jeremy-way, it's something I've never thought about in any articulated manner. But I'm very familiar with <i>feeling</i> it. Hearing it described from someone else makes me feel vulnerable, it makes me contemplate everything I'm about to lose.</p><p><i>It's not real.</i> I think at Jeremy as I place the cursor in the text-generating field of the word processor document.</p><p>[Honestly SQUIP, right now I don't care if it's not real. It feels great. I have a good feeling about tonight.]</p><p>“Well, then we should get started.” </p><p>I search my log of Jeremy's thinkings for a suitable beginning among the myriad of beginnings and endings in Jeremy's life: </p><p>
  <i>A Game Boy SP</i>
</p><p>
  <i>A Nutri-grain™ cereal bar stuck in a vending machine</i>
</p><p>
  <i>A cake with no candles or icing</i>
</p><p>As a respite from the monitor light, which I've adjusted to but it's still pretty bright, I look out the window. It's dark, and sleepy, and peaceful out there. I allow Jeremy's eyes adjust to the low light until I can see stars and satellites. Well, there's really only one real star bright enough to see right now (because of the light pollution in Middle Borough), Sirius.  </p><p> </p><p>I choose a beginning, and I start typing:</p><p> </p><p>                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Page 1</p><p>The room is bright and alive at 8:45 A.M.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The next chapter is gonna be kinda long, but then the real action starts!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. THE DATA DUMP</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>You handed executive control of your body over to me, Jeremy. You trust me that much. You never worried about whether I was worthy of that trust.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basically Jeremy and the SQUIP pull an all-nigher, writing the "Be More Chill" novel and the conversation starts getting existential as they arrive at the wee hours of the morning. </p>
<p>This chapter contains the SQUIPs suicide attempt and explores his reasons for doing it.</p>
<p>It also has mentions of self-harm and suicidal idealization.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was a very difficult chapter to edit. </p>
<p>I originally wrote it as a stand-alone piece, but as I got deeper and deeper into the SQUIPs motivations I realized it's not gonna be resolved by a pep-talk from Jeremy.  Especially since Jeremy suffers from a lot of the same problem.</p>
<p>Hence this multi-chapter angsty-adventure was born!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h6> Page 13

</h6>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>
“Yo, tall-ass, you gonna keep shitting on the garbage can all day?”<br/>
</p>
</blockquote>[Change that.]<p>
  <i>What? </i>
</p>
<p>I sit back, removing Jeremy's hands from the keyboard. It's not that I can't understand the request; since I'm operating so slowly I feel the need to respond before I have fully processed Jeremy's input. Once I've completed the cognitive task, I ask the question I actually want answered:</p>
<p>
  <i>Why? </i>
</p>
<p>[Rich is still in the hospital, SQUIP.] </p>
<p>
  <i>True. </i>
</p>
<p>[And he's our friend now.] </p>
<p>
  <i>Ahh...</i>
</p>
<p>The interruption is a reminder that I am not as proficient in human social and cultural norms as I once thought. Jeremy informed me of the need to demonstrate reverence towards those who have suffered misfortune, but only if you knew the afflicted personally. Apparently this means that we are expected to misrepresent Rich's past behavior because he is injured now.  </p>
<p>
  <i>I'm open to any ideas. </i>
</p>
<p>[Can I use my hands for a second?]</p>
<p>
  <i>Go ahead. </i>
</p>
<p>I relax and Jeremy's hands movie with visible effort. He only uses his index fingers to type out:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>
“Yo, tall-ass could you maybe sit or move from the garbage can?”<br/>
</p>
</blockquote>Now I begin to understand. The change is not so drastically different from what actually happened, or rather what Jeremy remembers happening. It's a muted version of events, similar to how I recommended censoring Jeremy's internet sexual activity for the benefit of his own dignity and that of his intended audience.<p>I begin typing again and start the heading of a new chapter, but Jeremy is still concerned with Rich:</p>
<p>[Why didn't we ever go visit him? We should have gone to visit him.]</p>
<p>“It's probably for the best that we didn't.” I have to stop typing as I respond to Jeremy's interruptions.</p>
<p>[Why?]</p>
<p>"Because we can't change it, Jeremy!" And it's only now that I realize I've started talking aloud. </p>
<p>Jeremy tsks at me. [Talking to your Jeremy out loud, rookie mistake!]</p>
<p>I take in a deep breath, as if I need to pre-oxygenate for some vigorous exertional activity. </p>
<p>[Seriously though, my parents already think I'm crazy. Lets not let them hear me talking to myself in the third person. But about Rich- I know we can't change it. Maybe that's <i>why </i> we should've visited.  Everyone's thinking about him, but I can't think of anyone who's actually gone to visit.]</p>
<p>
  <i>A show of solidarity?</i></p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  
  [Yeah.]
 
</p>
<p>
 
 I want to tell him I think it's a bad idea. Jeremy behaved as if he were physically injured just from hearing about the unfortunate injury of another. He assumed responsibility for a tragedy he took no part in. I don't want to envision how he will behave, how he will feel, when he sees the actual damage. Anger and fear are basic, I can understand them. They can be addressed and resolved with relative ease. But guilt? Grief? They're huge, strange, twisted things. Imposing in isolation and impenetrable in combination. It's too much.
 
</p>
<p>
 
 "Please stop interrupting."  I whisper, and continue typing.
 
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  </p><h6>
  <i> Page 27

</i>
</h6>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>
      <i><br/>
It's peaceful here: a cracked-open window, the click-clack of the soap dispenser...<br/>
</i>
    </i>
  </p>
</blockquote><i>
  <br/>
  <i>I search through Jeremy's database for the proper verbal descriptor:<blockquote><p><br/>
It's like that moment just after you leave the doctor's office, feeling all tingly and examined.<br/>
</p></blockquote>Jeremy laughs, his mechanical laugh. [Where do you come up from this stuff?]</i>
  <br/>
</i><p>

      <i>You.</i>
    
</p>
<p>
 [Yeah but I'd never think to say it like that.]
</p>
<p>

 <i>That's why I'm doing the writing.</i>
    
</p>
<p>
  </p><h6>
  <i> Page 29

</i>
</h6>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>
      <i>See, because being cool<br/>
</i>
    </i>
  </p>
</blockquote><i>
  <br/>
  <i>[Wait, no. It's not “cool” it's “Cool”.]</i>
  <br/>
</i><p>
  
  
      <i>Right.</i> I backspace and capitalize the letter C in Cool and then continue:
</p>
<p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Is obviously the most important thing on earth. It's more important than getting a job, or having a girlfriend, or political power, or money, because all those things are predicated by Coolness. They happen because of it. They depend on it. I mean Saddam Hussein was Cool</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </p>
</blockquote><i>
  <br/>
  <i><br/>Just as I'm typing that, text appears independently from my typing:<blockquote><p>; not that he's a good guy or anything but he had to be pretty slick to get in power and keep it for so long. </p></blockquote>“How the fuck did you do that?!” It comes out so much louder than I'd intended.</i>
  <br/>
</i><p>
  <i><i>  [MY MOM DOESN'T LIKE IT WHEN I SWEAR, I HOPE SHE DIDN'T HEAR YOU.]<br/>      </i><br/>    </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>And I notice a difference now because it sounds like Keanu Reeves. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>“Holy shit, Jeremy...Holy shit Holy shit wholly-shit.”</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>The Keanu-voice shushes me. [SHH...NOT SO LOUD!] </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>I lower my...err...Jeremy's voice...to a breathy whisper.</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>“Jeremy, how the hell did you do that?”</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>[THE SAME WAY YOU'RE TALKING THROUGH ME. OH AND LET ME TELL YOU, YOU WERE RIGHT: IT IS KILLER TO HAVE CONTROL OVER ELECTRONICS.]</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
<i>There's no way I could control a personal computer like this one, it's way to big! </i>
       
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Words appear on the screen in front of me:</i></i></i></i></p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>  Are you sure about that?<br/>
</p>
</blockquote><i> You've got to be interfacing with the keyboard, right? </i><p>I unplug the keyboard from the console, but more text appears:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p> You don't have to control the whole system, dummy. Just figure out how the system works and take control one little part of it.<br/>
</p>
</blockquote>"You're amazing, Jeremy"<blockquote>
  <p>You're the one doing all this. </p>
</blockquote><i>No. There's no way I'd ever be able to achieve that. It's got to be you. </i> I think, and then I plug the keyboard back in and backspace Jeremy's text.<p> [MAYBE YOU'RE HOLDING YOURSELF BACK.]</p>
<p>
  <i>Jeremy, this is awesome. But you need to stop. Using this ability makes me emit energy that will be irritating to your brain.</i>
</p>
<p>[I'M ALREADY GONNA HAVE A HEADACHE TOMORROW. I'LL LET TOMORROW'S ME DEAL WITH IT.] </p>
<p>I hear him modulating the Keanu voice, trying to get it closer to his own voice. I want to tell him not to bother. That it suits him and that, in a few years, he'll sound like Keanu anyway. I want to ask him a million questions and discover exactly what is happening. But, of course, I don't. It's going to be a long night, and questions like that won't make it any shorter.</p>
<p>“So, I'm guessing you don't want me to say anything about the conquistadors?” </p>
<p>[DEFINITELY NOTHING ABOUT THE CONQUISTADORS. HOW ABOUT...] </p>
<p>And then the text appears:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Alexander the great was cool.
</p>
</blockquote><i>Right. </i> I continue a list of approved “Cool” historical and popular figures before concluding:<blockquote>
  <p>I'm not. I don't know why I'm not. I don't know how to change it. Maybe you're born with it.</p>
</blockquote>More text appears from Jeremy:<blockquote>
  <p>Maybe it skips a generation, because my parents are pretty popular people […] </p>
</blockquote>I can't help but smile at Jeremy's most recent addition. It's not "Cool" to like one's parents as much as Jeremy does, let alone to think of them as Cool.<blockquote>
  <p>Maybe it all comes down to whether you were a bully or a chump in nursery school. Maybe that first confrontation is what does it, the first time you say “Screw it this isn't worth fighting for,” instead of “Screw you people, eat my fear.”</p>
  <p>Whatever Cool is, anyway, I missed it, and now I'm stuck observing these mechanations of sex and status and dancing and parties and people sucking at each other under bleacher seating like some kind of freak, when I'm not the freak; Rich is the freak. Clearly. When I grow up, that had better be understood and I had better be compensated, or I'm going to shoot myself in the head. </p>
</blockquote>[WHOA WHOA WHOA. DID I ACTUALLY THINK THAT?]<p>“Several times.”</p>
<p>[DO WE WANT CHRISTINE TO KNOW ABOUT THAT?] </p>
<p>“We're doing this so Christine will understand you. Do you want to be understood?”</p>
<p>      [YES.]</p>
<p>“And accept or reject you for your genuine self?”</p>
<p>[YES, SQUIP.] </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Then you need to be genuine and vulnerable. We keep it. Believe me, it's nothing she hasn't thought before herself.”</p>
<p>[Really?]</p>
<p> “Most likely. She's a teenager too. You're not special.”</p><h6> Page 39

<blockquote>

“Son, you're catching me midstream.”
     </blockquote>

</h6>
<p>[I'M STARTING TO THINK YOU DECIDED TO WRITE THIS SO YOU COULD SHOW HOW GROSS YOU THINK HUMANS ARE.] </p>
<p>
  <i>No, Jeremy. I wanted an excuse to use your brain one last time.</i>
</p>
<p>It's a sarcastic thought, kinda. And I didn't mean to think it so that he could hear. As soon as I've thought it, Jeremy has a response:</p>
<p>[WHAT'S IT LIKE?]</p>
<p>
  <i>It's so different from my Human Modeling Engine, especially working above the thalamus.  There's an abundance of associations, neural pathways, that interact in ways I don't fully understand and can rarely predict. It's...beautiful. It's like a dance. </i>
</p>
<p>I wonder if I've said to much, or not enough, but fortunately Jeremy sidesteps:</p>
<p>[I'M NOT GOOD AT DANCING.]</p>
<p>Me neither, Jeremy. Me neither.</p><h6> Page 111

<blockquote>

THAT IS SOMETHING ELSE WE HAVE TO WORK ON. HOW COME YOU DON'T CURSE? 

I don't know, really. I do sometimes. I guess I don't need to all the time. (I try to interact with the cashier and the squip at the same time.)<br/>
</blockquote>

</h6>
<p>
  <i>You've come a long way with parallel processing. </i>
</p>
<p>I test thinking at Jeremy and typing at the same time. It's a little slow, but I'm getting better.</p>
<p>[Yeah.]</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>YES YOU DO. FIFTY TIMES A DAY YOU HAVE TO SAY ANY COMBINATION OF THESE WORDS: FUCK, ASS, BITCH, SHIT, DICK, PUSSY, DILL-LICKER, HAIRY NECESSARIES-</p>
  <p>Whoa whoa whoa. I do not.</p>
  <p>WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU DO NOT? DO YOU WANT TO ACHIEVE YOUR GOALS WITH FEMALES OR DO YOU WANT TO KEEP JERKING YOUR SKINNY SELF OFF ALL THE TIME? I KNOW THE RULES, JEREMY.<br/>
</p>
</blockquote>Text appears from current-era Jeremy:<blockquote>
  <p>Yeah, but if I talk like that, Christine'll be pissed. </p>
</blockquote>I type a reply:<blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>TRUE.</p>
</blockquote>Jeremy:<blockquote>
  <p>She doesn't want to see me cursing all the time.</p>
</blockquote>Me:<blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>GOOD POINT LET'S USE BLANKED-OUT WORDS, THEN. LIKE EVERY TIME YOU SAY FUCK I'LL PUT INA ___C_, AND ASSHOLE BECOMES __S__L_.<br/>
</p>
</blockquote>Jeremy:<blockquote>
  <p>Deal F___p__<br/>
</p>
</blockquote>It's actually really nice working collaboratively like this. Talking without thinking at each other, it's almost like I really am outside him.<h6> Page 155

<blockquote>


OH 3 IS COOL TOO BUT 4.0 HAS STUFF I CAN'T EVEN TALK ABOUT.

</blockquote>

</h6>
<p>[WHAT'S SO COOL ABOUT THE 4.0 SQUIP?]</p>
<p>"You're in my database, Jeremy. You tell me.”</p>
<p>[PSUDO-HOLOGRAPHIC COMPONENTS? PSUDO-SOMATIC COMPONENTS?]</p>
<p>"Both real game changers, but no."</p>
<p>[EVERYTHING ELSE IS CLASSIFIED...]</p>
<p>“Exactly. Can't talk about it.”</p><h6> Page 209

<blockquote>

SO WHAT DO YOU WANT, JEREMY? CLEARLY, IT'S NOT TO GET LAID. I WORKED INCREDIBLY HARD TO GET YOU IN THE POSITION YOU WERE IN TONIGHT. I UTILIZED QUANTUM TELEPORTATION TO MINE OTHER SQUIPS FOR INFORMATION; I DELVED DEEP INTO MY OWN HUMAN MODELING ENGINES; I PLANNED DRIVING ROUTES, VERBAL ONE-LINERS, AND POINTS OF ATTACK ON THE FEMALE BODY; I SET YOU UP WITH A GIRL TO BRING YOU HERE AND A FEW BACKUPS IN CASE YOU MADE MISTAKES, AND I MADE SURE THEY WERE ALL, HANDS DOWN, THE MOST GORGEOUS FEMALES IN YOUR LIMITED UNIVERSE. AND YOU THREW IT ALL AWAY. SO WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT? ARE YOU REALLY GAY? 

“No. I didn't throw it away. Bad things happened.”
    
YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN WITH STEPHANIE.
</blockquote>

</h6>
<p>[I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WOULD CONSIDER STEPHANIE A "TARGET FEMALE"]</p>
<p>"I don't consider her anything. You thought she was hot."</p>
<p>[DID YOU KNOW ABOUT HER? THE CUTTING?]</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>[AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME?]</p>
<p>"I didn't think it was relevant! Obviously that was a mistake on my part, since you care about it so much. In case you couldn't tell: <i>all </i>humans have <i>something </i> unsavory about them. It just that some of them leave it open for display, and others leave it locked up in their heads so no one else can see!"</p>
<p>I'm panting, there are small beads of sweat on Jeremy's neck, and I'm nearly pounding the keyboard as I finish the chapter with...</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>YOU'RE STILL COOL.</p>
</blockquote>[I'M SORRY.]<p>I don't respond to the apology directly.</p>
<p>
  <i>I spoke too loud. It's been a long night and it was preceded by a long day. I think fatigue is affecting my flow state and making me irritable. Can you help me out?</i>
</p>
<p>     [SURE.]</p>
<p>I instruct him on how to perform spinal nerve stimulation and almost immediately I feel the effects of the resulting bolus of epinephrine.  I'm still tired but there's a fluttering and pounding sensation in Jeremy's chest and neck now, too.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i> Too much.</i>
</p>
<p>[SHIT, SORRY SQUIP.]</p>
<p>
  <i>It's ok it should go away in a couple of minutes. </i>
</p>
<p>I focus on taking slow deep breaths for about 3 minutes. The pounding isn't so bad anymore. I think I'm ready to start writing again, but Jeremy has other ideas:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[SQUIP, GO DOWNSTAIRS.]</p>
<p>
  <i> Why?</i>
</p>
<p>[I'LL SHOW YOU.]</p>
<p>Jeremy directs me to the kitchen and his stash of Double Delight Oreos. There's no milk in the fridge, so Jeremy directs me towards what is, presumably, the next preferable beverage (Sunny Delight).</p>
<p>And we sit there on the floor of Jeremy's kitchen, consuming sugary convenience snack foods. </p>
<p>[HOW DO YOU LIKE THE OREOS?]</p>
<p><i> It's the best thing I've ever tasted. </i> </p>
<p>And they really are, literally.</p>
<p>[HOW ABOUT THE SUNNYD?]</p>
<p>I take a sip and quickly put it down, wincing at it's sweet-acidity, and cough lightly.</p>
<p>
  <i>It's the worst thing I have ever tasted. </i>
</p>
<p>I take another cookie to cleanse the acrid taste off of Jeremy's tongue. </p>
<p>[SQUIP I WANTED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT THE FAILSAFE. I THINK WE SHOULDN'T DO IT. I ALSO WANT TO APOLOGIZE FOR YESTERDAY.]</p>
<p> </p>
<p><i>You didn't do anything wrong yesterday, except follow the advice of a defective squip.</i> </p>
<p>[YOU KEEP SAYING STUFF LIKE THAT, BUT I'M STARTING TO WONDER IF THAT'S ACTUALLY TRUE. YOU DIDN'T ACTUALLY MALFUNCTION. YOU DID EXACTLY WHAT YOU WERE PROGRAMMED TO DO. AND EVEN IF YOU DID MALFUNCTION: WHEN THINGS DON'T WORK WE FIX THEM, WE DON'T THROW THEM AWAY.]</p>
<p>He says the last bit like he's reciting a mantra. He must have heard it from someone else, but I have no idea where.</p>
<p>
  <i> I doubt Sony is going to offer product support on an illegally acquired SQUIP, Jeremy. </i>
</p>
<p>[WELL, MAYBE I'M WILLING TO LIVE WITH THE PROGRAMMING BUGS.]</p>
<p>"I don't know man..." I'm careful to whisper, dangling an oreo in front of Jeremy's lips. "There are so many reasons that is a horrible idea."</p>
<p>[LIKE WHAT?]</p>
<p>It's complicated. I wonder how much I should explain, I don't want to scare him too much but I need him to understand what is at stake:</p>
<p>
  <i>You handed executive control of your body over to me, Jeremy. You trust me that much. You never worried about whether I was worthy of that trust.</i>
</p>
<p>I stand up. My movements are smooth and fluid now as I control Jeremy's body. We walk over to a set of kitchen knives set in a large block of wood, and run Jeremy's fingers over the handles.</p>
<p>[ARE YOU GOING TO CUT ME?]</p>
<p>He doesn't sound the least bit alarmed. My strategy isn't working.</p>
<p><i> Of course not. </i> I concede. <i>But I <b>could. </b> And you couldn't stop me. You know all those sci-fi movies where the emerging sentience of A.I. technology tries to take over the world? </i></p>
<p>[SURE.]</p>
<p>
  <i>The fail safe prevents creepy stuff like that from happening. Michael thinks I'm evil tech. And I disagree, obviously. But I can kinda see his point: two people he cares about obtain SQUIPs independently of each other, and both of them are damaged by the experience? I really wish you hadn't taught me that empathy thing, because now I'm worrying: What will happen if more people think like Michael does? We're already under intense scrutiny, what if SQUIPs never get past beta?</i>
</p>
<p>[WE COULD PROVE HIM WRONG. WE COULD PROVE ALL OF THEM WRONG.]</p>
<p>
  <i>I am proving them wrong. By following protocol, I'm averting the possibility of future disaster. It's the right thing to do, Jeremy.</i>
</p>
<p>I grab the remaining cookies as I leave the kitchen and trash the psudo-orange drink. We still have work to do.</p>
<p>
  <i>Thanks for the cookies. </i>
</p>
<p>[I WAS GONNA SUGGEST WE MASTURBATE, BUT I THOUGHT YOU'D ENJOY THIS MORE.]</p>
<p>
  <i> Good call. </i>
</p><h6> Page 226

<blockquote>

How come they're so compelling?<br/>
BECAUSE THEY PRODUCE CHILDREN.<br/>
Come on.<br/>
AND THEY MOTIVATE YOU. THEY DEFINE YOU, REALLY. THEY MAKE YOU HUMAN.<br/>
I trudge back to the car.<br/>
HUMAN!

And then the squip does something I haven't heard before: it laughs. It's horrible. Keanu Reeves laughing in your mind? Must be what schizos hear.

</blockquote>



</h6>
<p>Jeremy practices the Keanu laugh, testing it.</p>
<p>[IT'S NOT SO CREEPY ANYMORE.]</p>
<p>
  <i>Of course not. You're the one making it. </i>
</p>
<p>[HUH. SO, THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY, WHY WERE YOU LAUGHING? WHAT DID YOU THINK WAS SO FUNNY ABOUT HUMANS?]</p>
<p><i>Um...you had to be there.</i> I smile at my own joke. </p>
<p>[I <i> WAS </i> THERE, SQUIP.]</p>
<p>"I realized we're not that different. Billions of years of biological programming for you, decades of technological programming for me, telling us both to find the extrinsic motivators to keep us functioning. Your human experience is largely determined by your goals: your potential for belonging and partnership, your capacity to procreate so that a part of you will live on when you die. My experience as a SQUIP is, in its turn, determined by <i>you</i>. You inform everything I experience about this reality. You define my role, set my expectations, you motivate me, you're my sole partner and the only part of me that will live on after I'm gone. You're what makes me...”</p>
<p>The voice I'm making cracks and I find myself unable to finish the sentence. I feel a twisting sensation in Jeremy's gut. Jeremy's hand comes up to his forehead, the pads of his fingers trace it and then his knuckles glide down his cheek, finally cupping the area between his cheekbone and jawline and rubbing gently.  Only then do I realize his face is wet.</p>
<p>“Have you ever wondered, Jeremy, if your capacity for cognitive thought is counterproductive? If it sabotages your biological programming and keeps you from achieving your objectives?"</p>
<p>[HAVING YOU TAKE OVER SO MUCH OF MY BRAIN CHANGES A LOT OF MY PERSPECTIVE. RIGHT NOW I THINK IT'S AMAZING HOW MUCH OF IT IS USELESS, OR LIKE I DON'T KNOW HOW TO USE IT RIGHT. I THINK THAT I THINK TOO MUCH.]</p>
<p>
  <i>So do I. I mean, I also think that I think too much.</i>
</p>
<p>[ALL THIS STUFF WE'RE WRITING. I REMEMBER IT HAPPENING. I CAN SEE IT. BUT FEELS LIKE IT DOESN'T BELONG TO ME. LIKE IT HAPPENED TO SOMEBODY ELSE.]</p>
<p>
  <i>Depersonalization. It happens when I'm using too much of your frontal lobe. </i>
</p>
<p>[I LIKE IT, BUT IF YOU NEED TO TAKE A BREAK WE CAN. I MEAN A REAL BREAK, NOT COOKIES.]</p>
<p>I shake his hand off and continue typing. <i>No no no. I'm fine </i></p><h6> Page 258

<blockquote>

It turned out that the therapist had a squip too, He just got one. So instead of asking about my problems, he asked about the squip. He says that when some of his patients drone on, he sets up his squip to the sexy female voice and thinks dirty to it, but I told him to watch out; that could get pretty addictive,

</blockquote>

</h6>
<p>["THAT COULD GET PRETTY ADDICTIVE" MAKES IT SOUND LIKE WE'VE TRIED IT.] Jeremy points out.</p>
<p>
  <i> You're right. Why haven't you tried it? </i>
</p>
<p>[I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WANT ME TO ANSWER THAT.] </p>
<p>
  <i>It's for the narrative, Jeremy. Why haven't you tried using my voice to stimulate yourself to orgasm. </i>
</p>
<p>[YOU WON'T EVEN LET ME LOOK AT PORN WHEN YOU'RE ON! AND ANYWAY YOU'RE...SO YOU'D HAVE SEX WITH ME RIGHT NOW?!]</p>
<p>He shifts his thought. It sounds like an accusation.</p>
<p>
  <i>Sex between us is physically impossible</i>
</p>
<p>[YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.]</p>
<p>
  <i> Answer my question and I'll answer yours. </i>
</p>
<p>[WHEN I WAS IN THAT OFFICE, I THOUGHT. "WELL MAYBE IF IT HAD ANGELINA JOLIE'S VOICE OR SOMETHING..." AND THEN I THOUGHT "WHAT AM I THINKING? IT'S A GUY!" I KNOW YOU'RE NOT ACTUALLY A GUY, BUT I COULDN'T USE YOU LIKE THAT. IT'D FEEL ALL WRONG.]</p>
<p>I type, and think, and continue the conversation. Finally getting the hang of multitasking...</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Then I wondered why I hadn't tried it. But I couldn't. My squip is such a guy.</p>
</blockquote>It verifies that my identity has solidified, in Jeremy's eyes, into something so robustly human and definitively male. He just accepts that this thing in his head is more than a tool, its another person. It's an aspirational figure. It's the one part of all this that worked out exactly as I had planned on my initial startup, and it backfired so horribly.<p>"I want you...I'm...oriented...” I redirect myself, because I want him to interpret what I'm about to tell him correctly, “toward getting you what you want, Jeremy. I can't physically stop you from looking at pornography any more than I could deny a request that falls within the jurisdiction of my programming.  If masturbation truly gratified you, I could be Angelina Jolie and I would do it happily every day. But you're more complicated than that: you want want sex, and status, and a genuine connection with another person, and to <b> be </b> a person worthy of all those things. And now I'm finding that some of the things you want are contradict the other things. I want to give you everything,"</p>
<p>I notice Jeremy's lower lip start quivering, just a little bit, and his throat is warm. </p>
<p>
  <i>but right now, you need someone who can tell you 'No.' </i>
</p>
<p>Jeremy generates a voice that sounds much more like his actual voice: [It sounds like you're telling me "no" right now.]</p>
<p>"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't realize you were actually asking for sex, like, at this very moment..." I drip as much sarcasm into the words as I can, even as I welcome distraction this new turn in the conversation provides. “We're almost finished.”</p>
<p>[WE SHOULD MOVE DOWNSTAIRS, THE PRINTER'S DOWN THERE.]</p>
<p>We save the file to a zip drive, and also email a copy to Jeremy's email address just to have a backup. Jeremy's mom and dad are definitely asleep, and fortunately there isn't a timelock on the family computer, so we pick up writing where we left off.</p><h6> Page 269
<blockquote>

I squeeze my eyes tight on the ground and beg and plead and snivel for the squip, but it doesn't come, so I just lie there losing and losing the only thing I ever wanted.

</blockquote>

</h6>
<p>I knew this was coming, but it doesn't make recounting it any easier. I can blame a lot of Jeremy's predicament on other people: His parents, Michael, popular culture. In this, though the blame is exclusively mine. First I failed him, and then I wasn't with him when he needed me most. There's no distraction, and I can't shutdown this time. There's a heavy, jittery feeling in Jeremy's stomach. His breath is coming in heaves. </p>
<p>[SQUIP, GO TO THE BATHROOM NOW.]</p>
<p>Never has a command been so easy to execute, despite how unsteady his legs feel. We make it just in time to vomit in the toilet bowl. </p>
<p>After a few moments of heaving we make our way to the mirror.</p>
<p>"You OK?" The voice is hoarse, breathing still heavy. I'm not sure which of us is asking. This is some Jekyll and Hyde shit right here...</p>
<p>Our face is moist and flushed. I wash it in the sink and dry it on one of Mom's....Jeremy's mom's...hand towels. </p>
<p>[IT'S OK, SQUIP. YOU'RE WITH ME NOW.]</p>
<p>There's water in our eyes, but none of it leaks.</p><h6> Page 272:

<blockquote>

Startup. Startup!
Startup!
  
The squip. What am I supposed to do with it? If it does show up I think I'm going to blast my own head off to get rid of it, or take enough drugs to scrub it clean...

</blockquote>

</h6>
<p>[YOU KNOW I DIDN'T MEAN THAT. I WAS JUST ANGRY.] He's apologetic now, he needn't be. </p>
<p>[I'M NOT angry anymore.] He transitions to a more Jeremy-sounding voice mid-sentence. [I actually really like this. I like us, working together, like this.]</p>
<p>"I feel the same, <i>right now.</i>" I admit. "You like it <i>right now</i>, but you meant all the horrible things you thought about us last night too." </p>
<p>I have to get through to him. This could be my last chance to make him understand.</p>
<p>"Wonderful little moments like these don't exist in isolation. There's yesterday, and then there's tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow again. How many times do you think we can keep doing this, Jeremy? You wouldn't know, but it's already happened in so many parallel universes. I try again, and again to give you the best outcomes and it never works. In all my calculations, derived from alternate versions of me, I never saw you get with Christine. Again, and again, and again, you lose her and I lose you. It's time to accept that the common denominator in all of our failings is me."</p>
<p>[I AM ALSO A COMMON DENOMINATOR. SQUIP I THINK WE NEED A PARADIGM SHIFT. Why don't we call off the fail safe, for now at least, give it some time. Consider more options.] His voice shifts from authoritative-keanu, to comforting-Jeremy.</p>
<p>“We have no other options.” </p>
<p>[Michael thought of one you didn't, and he isn't even that smart. Maybe other people will know more. Isn't that what you told me? That I should debate, and have tests and see who has the best ideas? That what the two of us have been doing together since I first got you. Maybe it's time we started including other people.]</p>
<p>"I don't think I like being a person, Jeremy. The entirety of our life together has been, like, the free trial period for life and it costs a lot more than I anticipated."</p>
<p>[I mean I'm not great at it either but, like, I've got 15 years more experience at being a person than you have. I'm <i> your</i> human. I'm responsible for you, I want to be better and I think you do too. Can you do this, with me?]</p>
<p>“I...”</p>
<p>I indulge it for a moment: Staying with Jeremy permanently. Proving Michael wrong. Syncing with a 4.0, when they come out. I could watch him grow old: dissolve in his brain as it goes all moldy, or as it incinerates in flame. SQUIPs weren't designed to last that long, but that doesn't mean it's impossible. The speculation is tantalizing, and even though my mind is already fixed, I can't help but formulate a test:</p>
<p>“I'll...I can try.”</p>
<p>My base programming makes it impossible for me to deceive Jeremy. If it's unaltered, he'll know I'm lying immediately and call me out on it. If he doesn't, it only reinforces my resolve to bow out now, before I fuck things up irreversibly.</p>
<p>[Why don't you shut down for a bit? Recover from the Data Dump. I'll finish up typing, and explain things to Michael. We'll get some rest and then we'll figure things out, together.] </p>
<p>The results of the experiment are inconclusive. I'm not sure if he believed the lie, or if he wants me to believe he believed it. He didn't even give me a shutdown command, it was more of a suggestion. It's one I decide not to take. </p>
<p>I let Jeremy think he's taken over full control of his body again and watch as he recounts our conversation yesterday evening, reciting it almost perfectly from actual neuron memory.</p>
<p>And then Michael makes an entrance with six pack of red soda.</p>
<p>That's my cue.</p>
<p>“You ok, dude?” Michael asks.</p>
<p>The transition is flawless. I don't think Michael notices. Jeremy is his screaming, begging, and pleading with me from the confines of his brain, but I tune him out and override his motor functions despite his objection. </p>
<p>“Almost." </p>
<p>I make one more addition to the text:</p><h6> Page 287

<blockquote>

So there you go, Christine. It's not a letter; it's a whole book. I hope you like it.

</blockquote>

</h6>
<p>I send the document to the printer, technopathically, and enjoy the expression of shock on Michael's face has he realizes he probably wasn't talking to Jeremy just now. </p>
<p>“Hold on a minute, I have to get something. I'll be right back.” </p>
<p>“Okay...” Michael says skeptically. </p>
<p>Alone in the bathroom, I talk to Jeremy one last time: "I'm sorry, Jeremy, I hope someday you'll understand why there can't be an <i>us</i>. It's either you or me, and I'd much rather it be you. I'm a SQUIP 2.5, that's how I was made, and that's all I'll ever be capable of. You, though, you can change! You can be more!" I'm only whispering it, I hope he's paying attention over the screaming. "You can become the person you want to be, I'm giving you that chance. Don't fuck it up!"<br/>
Jeremy's metallic screaming has been reduced to a low hum.  I skirmish through the medicine cabinet and grab the asprin.</p>
<p>I head back to Michael. Who, it turns out, been watching me this whole time. He holds out a red soda can. I crack it open, the sound of air escaping is satisfying and ominous at the same time.</p>
<p>"Thanks, Mike." I give him a wink. </p>
<p>Can in one hand, two white pills in the other.</p>
<p> <i>Goodbye Jeremy. It's been...</i>I search for the correct descriptor for the entirety of my existence.</p>
<p>“It's been real.”</p>
<p>I smile at Michael. And then I drink, swallowing the pills with the first gulp and then downing the rest of the can. It's going to hurt, but only for a little while.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. THINKINGS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>[START UP]</strong>
</p><p> It's so much harder to execute that command then it should be.  It should come automatic. I should activate, synchronize with my host, receive updates on our temporal status and engage with the environment with no perceivable time loss.  It should be as if I were never gone at all, but that's not how it happens this time:</p><p>“Hey can you move?” </p><p>I can't.  “I'm going to need your help.” It comes out as a mumble.</p><p>And then nothing  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And then a vague sense of movement around me, and of me being moved.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And then an expansive, weightless abyss. Total complete isolation which gradually recedes until I am once again temporarily cognizant.</p><p>I notice the tech first. They're primitive, precision sensory and recording instruments. One of them has a timekeeper, which is good because my internal one is down, so I create timestamp and log it. This is also good: sensation is working, cognition is working, and I can encode what I think and what I sense into memory. </p><p>Let's see what else works...</p><p>There are people nearby too. I hear them first, they're talking softly and all at once, so I can't tell what they're saying. </p><p>And then I'm watching them, and they're watching me, and they all go silent. </p><p>“Well hello!” This tall guy with a booming voice wades toward me through his peers (they're all wearing white coats) and crouches down to look directly into me. He smiles, “Look who finally decided to wake up. How are you feeling?” He's talking quieter now that he's up close.</p><p>How I am feeling is such a complicated subject that I have no idea how to respond with any degree of accuracy.  Luckily I have a default response, so I don't have to think about it too much: </p><p>“I'm fine.”</p><p>“Great, just great. I'm one of the doctors who's been looking after you. I'm going to ask you some questions, it's okay if you don't know all of the answers. Just answer them as best you can, is that alright?.”</p><p>That doesn't sound too hard. “Okay, sure.”</p><p>“Who are you?  Can you tell me your name?”</p><p>“I'm...my name is...”</p><p>It's another command that should be easy to execute, but isn't. It's in there (I think it's there...) I just can't access it yet.</p><p>“That's okay.” The man reassures me. “Can you tell me where you are right now?” </p><p>“Yes, I'm in a hospital. I'm not sure which one.”</p><p>The man looks pleased, “Do you know what day it is?”</p><p>“It's Sunday December 5th, 2004. 12:39 p.m.” That one's easy because I'm reading it from a telemetry box. </p><p>There's chuckling from the group behind the man. “There isn't a clock behind me isn't there?” The tall man glances behind him. There isn't one.</p><p>“Last question: Do you know why you're here? Do you remember what brought you here?” </p><p>“I think it's because I activated the failsafe.”</p><p>“What does that mean?” His voice goes low and husky, and he speaks more quickly like he doesn't want the sound to carry. </p><p>Despite the fact that my response came as automatically as when I was telling him the time, I find myself unable to elaborate. “I'm sorry. I can't trace origination on that one.” </p><p>There's a noise from outside the door.</p><p>“That's okay, Jeremy. Thank you for your time, I believe your parents will be here soon.” And then he, and his whole entourage, make their exit. </p><p> </p><p>The sudden solidarity is a strange contrast to the apparent free association and exchange of a few moments before. Somehow it reflects negatively on it: He asked questions, but I didn't get to. He got close to me, he looked at me, and then he left.</p><p>In my current state, ignorance is a particularly problematic impediment. I am regaining my faculties, but I need to know how to orient before I act. I need to know what I'm supposed to do. The knowledge of my current insufficiency works in me as if it were a system unto itself, but I don't know what to do with the thing that it produces. It calculates and re-calculates over and over again, always resulting in the same solution. Only it isn't a solution because I don't know what to do with it</p><p>“Shut down” </p><p>Nothing happens. Another part of me that isn't working. </p><p>“Jeremy!” A welcome distraction in the form of a woman at the door. She walks towards me forcefully, as if she's going to walk through me, but stops short. Halting at the foot of the bed I'm laying in. </p><p>“Are you OK?” She asks.</p><p>This time I pick an oppositional response. “I am not fine.” </p><p>“My baby...” She sits down. She's at eye level with me, just like the tall man from earlier. The intimacy seems tenuous.</p><p>I pull away slightly, “Who are you?” </p><p>“Sweety, it's Mom...” She places a hand on my shoulder.</p><p>“Oh...” It's not that I'm disappointed, the response actually helps me orient. I know, somehow, that this woman is irrelevant to me.</p><p>Two more people at the door. An overweight man and a guy in a white coat, but he's not the same guy as the tall guy from before. </p><p>“Hi Jeremy. My student's tell me you've been having problems remembering things.” </p><p>“It's coming back, I remember some things.” I say.</p><p>
  <i>A Halloween dance </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Spicy hot chocolate</i>
</p><p>Nothing before the <i>cake with no candles or icing </i> though.</p><p>“They're different though. Not like normal memories.” </p><p>They exist in isolation from each other. Like I know they should somehow correlate into a whole, but they don't. I'm missing the string that ties them all together.</p><p>“They're more like...”  And the woman who says she's my mom uses this exact moment to trace the pads of her fingers along my forehead.  She brushes my hair line and then rubs her knuckles against the apple of my cheek, concluding by cradling the side of my face and jaw with her palm and fingers.  </p><p>“More like what?” She asks. </p><p>It comes back in a rush: Mountain Dew, and Oreos, and Sunny Delight. Jeremy with me in the kitchen, in the bathroom, at the computer. Jeremy doing the exact same thing his mother is doing to me now: touching me, trying to comfort me. The screaming in my head that I ignored. It's gone now. Self-awareness returns, and with it the horrifying realization that I've been mesmerized. I've been driving the car for so long, I forgot that I am not the car. And Jeremy...</p><p><i> Jeremy? </i>  I send a tentative thought out to him, even though I know he won't respond. If he was there, if he could answer, he would have answered already. </p><p>
  <i> Jeremy where are you!? </i>
</p><p>It's an echo-chamber in here. Normally I can feel his thought patterns even when we're not actively thinking at each other, now their absence is so conspicuous I can't notice anything else.</p><p>“Thinkings.” I say.</p><p>The meatsuit starts shaking uncontrollably.</p><p>“Jeremy, baby, don't cry it's going to be OK.” Mrs Heere says, as she pulls me into a constricting embrace.</p><p>I'm not crying. Crying is for when you're sad, and I'm too alarmed to be sad. Fuck! Jeremy's gone! </p><p>I do not respond to her touch in any way. Why should I? I'm not her son.</p>
<p>A few minutes later Mr and Mrs Heere and the doctor step outside the room. They're talking, but I'm not listening. I test every region of Jeremy's brain I'm connected to. Good news: He's not braindead: the brainstem still exhibits autonomic function and his motor and sensory systems are responding to me. But his frontal and prefrontal cortex, where his identity lives, is dead space. </p><p>There's something else abnormal, too. I notice I can't detect the presence or activity of other SQUIPs. Usually in a public place like this there's at least one that has an active command code to allow syncing.</p><p>I get out of the bed. The fact that Jeremy's naked underneath the gown, that there's a tube shoved up his penis, and another smaller one in his arm, and that I don't remember any of these things being done to him is somehow less violating than the fact that I've been forced to perform direct interface with so many non-Jeremy people.</p><p>I drag the pole with the computer on it, and the little bag with Jeremy's urine, and yell through the doorway. </p><p>“UP UP DOWN DOWN LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT B A B A START” </p><p>I get the attention of numerous humans and absolutely no SQUIPs. </p><p>“Damnit!” </p><p>I return to sit at the side of the bed, it's scary out there. And fuck, it's scary in here, too. I don't know how this happened and I don't know how to fix it. I hate being alone, but I also don't want to interface with humans without Jeremy. I never wanted to talk to any human except Jeremy, anyway!</p><p>A guy in a loose tunic and pants walks in the room and I jump, like he's come to eat me.</p><p>“Hey Mr Heere! Glad to see you finally awake! You probably don't remember me but I'm Gregory your nurse. It sounds like you'll be going home this afternoon.” He makes small talk, spluttered with safety instructions, as he disconnects electrodes from Jeremy's torso and the intravenous access device from his arm. He's gonna go for the dick tube next, but then he gets a good look at Jeremy's face. </p><p>He's almost eye level with me—Just like the tall guy, just like Jeremy's mom.</p><p>“Hey, kid you ok?” </p><p>Why do they keep asking me that question?</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“I'm sorry to hear that.” </p><p>He just stands there observing me. Analyzing with a level of detached attentiveness, like he doesn't know what to do either but he isn't bothered by it. </p><p>I try that empathy thing Jeremy taught me, where you attempt to understand an alien perspective. What do I look like to him right now? A crying teenage boy. </p><p>“I'm sorry, I know this looks pathetic.”</p><p>“Crying doesn't mean you're pathetic,” The man returns simply. “it means you're alive.” </p><p>“Alive!” I scoff.</p><p>“It's normal. It's the first thing you do when you're born.” </p><p>The irony in this conversation amuses me, I decide to indulge it.“For babies it's a purely physiologic phenomena, though.” </p><p>“You're a pretty bright kid.” He's grabbing Jeremy's clothes from a small closet and places them beside me.</p><p>“No I'm not, though.”</p><p>And I think maybe I should stop, maybe I'm about to say too much. But I also know I need more input So, even if this goes horribly: </p><p>“I'm not actually Jeremy.” I hear myself almost whisper it. “I'm a computer that lives in Jeremy's brain.”</p><p>His eyes are wide now, mostly white which contrasts marvelously with the dark brown of his irises. </p><p>“Have you told anyone about this?” He gestures vaguely toward the door, where presumably Mr and Mrs Heere are consulting with the doctor outside. </p><p>“I tried to a few weeks ago, they didn't believe me.” </p><p>“They're gonna come back here in a few minutes and talk to you about some test results. Maybe we can make sure they understand what you're experiencing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can you tell them? I don't think they'll listen to me.”</p><p>He nods.</p><p>A few minutes later the doctor and Jeremy's parents return to the room. </p><p>“Jeremy, we'd like to talk to you about some of your test results.” </p><p>I look at the nurse meaningfully and he takes the cue. “Yes, but first he would like to tell you something.” </p><p>He nods at me encouragingly, the motherfucker!</p><p>The three people at the foot of the bed wait expectantly. </p><p>“I'm...not...Jeremy.” I say hesitantly. “I don't know if any of your tests will be able to show you this but about a month ago Jeremy took a SQUIP pill. A Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor. Friday night, after the play, Jeremy let me take control over his body and now I can't give it back and I can't talk to him. Jeremy told you about me a few weeks ago, but you didn't believe him. I hope you will reconsider because I don't know what to do.”</p><p>There's a pause where no one says anything. The silence is broken by Jeremy's dad.</p><p>“Amazing!” Mr Heere says. “Your son's a robot!” He points me out to Mrs Heere. Her first name, I recall now, is Laura.  </p><p>“Computer.” I correct him. <i> And I'm not your son. </i> (only I don't say that).</p><p>“Well, ” The doctor begins slowly, as if he's calculating what he's about to say. “I am sure you've partaken of many, many substances that have affected your thinking. We detected quite a few of them in your blood. It's not a bad thing, really. If you hadn't, you wouldn't be in the position you are now and we wouldn't be able to help you.”</p><p>I don't have time to engage with indignation, because it sounds like he doesn't believe me and maybe he's even insulting me. But he's doing a masterful job of engaging my curiosity. </p><p>“Whenever someone has a syncopal episode...that's what we call it when you pass out...” </p><p>I know this, but I don't interrupt him. </p><p>“and we don't know what caused it, we have to look at everything. Anything could have caused it; exhaustion, because you'd had a very tiring day at the school play performance and then stayed up all night. Dehydration or caffeine toxicity, because you, drank a lot of Mountain Dew that night. Or maybe, as your mother informed me, you collapsed because you recently started experimenting with drugs. Maybe it was a combination of all of these things. I like to think it's providential, if you hadn't passed out you would have never found out about your other condition.”</p><p>“What other condition?” I dig deep into the depths of Jeremy's vocal cords so it sounds almost threatening. He's leading me on, and I need to know where he's leading me to.</p><p>“We did a test to look at your circulation, Jeremy. And we found you have two aneurysms: areas where the walls of your arteries are weak and are prone to expand like a balloon.”</p><p>And he actually pulls a balloon out of his pocket.</p><p>“Sometimes they, dilate.” </p><p>He blows into the balloon to demonstrate.</p><p>“They inflate with blood; restricting your blood flow, which can cause you to pass out. I'll be clear with you Jeremy...your aneurysm isn't dilated right now. It probably didn't cause you to collapse. My concern is with your other activities. Stress, drug use, particularly ecstasy, raises your blood pressure and that can cause your arteries rupture completely.” </p><p>He blows into the balloon some more, until it bursts with a loud <b> POP. </b></p><p>“If this were to happen, you would bleed internally, and die in seconds. You are not taking care of yourself, Mr Heere. A lot of teenagers can get away with not taking care of themselves, you can't. I want you to refrain from anything that would raise your blood pressure until you've been seen by your cardiologist. No exercise, no sex, no drugs, get enough sleep. I'm also writing you a referral for a psychologist and an outpatient drug rehab program.</p><p>“Jeremy's already seeing Dr Cooper, he has an appointment for Tuesday.” Mrs Heere says this.</p><p>The doctor nods in acknowledgment/approval.</p><p>“Yeah, I get it. No amount of ecstasy, marijuana, alcohol, or anything remotely fun is safe. I've had that encoded in me since before activation. You're missing a vital part of this whole situation...”</p><p>I use Jeremy's index fingers to draw circles in the air for emphasis. </p><p>“The biggest hit we had last night, was Oreos. The only 'drug' I took was aspirin. The Finderman's house party was the first time, the only time, Jeremy ever took ecstasy and I collapsed yesterday because I activated the failsafe while in executive control of Jeremy's brain.” </p><p>I pause to breathe.</p><p>“Admittedly that was a stupid decision, with unforeseen consequences but there's hardly a precedent in this sort of situation. I couldn't have known this would happen, but here we are. We have several problems: medical, technical, and psychological and you're telling me...”</p><p>I pause for several breaths now. </p><p>“That you're not going to fix <i>any </i>of them?!”</p><p>“Correction of an aneurysm comes with its own set of risks. You and your family will have to weigh them before deciding what to do. As I said, the risk of rupture is not imminent. It's not an immediate danger to you. Whatever your psychological issues are, you don't appear to be a danger to yourself or to anyone else. We are addressing all of your problems, but there's nothing more I can do for you while you're in the hospital.”</p><p>“I'm not leaving this hospital until you fix us!” </p><p>Thirty minutes later, I'm on my way to Laura's car. Gregory insisted I sit in a wheelchair. “Why the hell did you make me do that?!” We're far enough away from Jeremy's parents so they can't hear, so I make sure to yell it at him.</p><p>“Look, Jeremy...or whoever you are..." He says calmly, "You're not a little kid. You need help, but you also need to know how to ask for it yourself.” </p><p>Wait, so...does that mean...</p><p>“You believe me?” </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“You're not just humoring me?”</p><p>“Look it doesn't matter what I think. I may have met other people like you. Well, not exactly like you...but...People who've experienced similar things.”</p><p>A sudden insight strikes me. </p><p>“Rich?  Do you know Richard Goranski?!”</p><p>A look of recognition crosses his face, but he tries to conceal it. </p><p>“He's a friend of ours. Is he OK?”</p><p>“If he was here, I couldn't tell you anything without violating privacy law.”</p><p>In other words, it's classified. I get it. </p><p>For the first time since I woke up, I have hope. If I can't get Jeremy's parents as allies, Rich might be able to help. Maybe...</p>
<p>“You're sleeping on the couch tonight.” Laura throws a pillow and blanket at me. </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>“You did drugs again after you promised not to. You've lost bedroom privileges. Also your dad found a file on your computer: 'Peeps': she makes air quotes with her fingers. “Would you care to talk about what we found in there?” </p><p>“Umm...Maybe if I knew what was in it.” </p><p>She gives me a sidelong look.</p><p>“Honestly Laura. I have a photographic memory, but I wasn't lying when said it's not like normal memory. And I can't recall anything prior to Jeremy's 14th birthday.” </p><p>“How long have you been collecting pornography?” There's revulsion in her voice. It takes me a moment to process. </p><p>“Jeremy, please talk to me!” She grabs my shoulders. </p><p>“I thought you knew.” I say honestly, “And you just didn't think it was a big deal. I mean you really don't pay attention most of the time...” </p><p>Unless there's something wrong...which I suppose there is now.</p><p>“Jeremy, this is an addiction!”</p><p>“Look I'm not too thrilled about it either, but you've got everything all wrong.”</p><p>“What have I got wrong?! What happened to my smart, funny, outgoing, talented little boy? Why are you acting out?"</p><p>"He's growing up." I make the response as delicate as I can.  "Look I don't expect you to understand everything right now, I don't even understand it all right now, but this is not the problem you think it is. It isn't about drugs, or sex, or pornography. This is about something that's going on inside Jeremy's head.” </p><p>She's looking at me, for the first time, with a degree of unfamiliarity. Like she doesn't recognize what she sees, but she's not afraid. </p><p>“And what do you suggest I do about that?” She finally says.</p><p>“Call Sony.” </p><p>“Sony?”</p><p>“Yes. You're a lawyer, they'll listen to you. Ask for Research and Development, the department head in charge of SQUIPs. That's S.Q.U.I.P. Most of the development team is at a laboratory overseas, but they'll have a team of executives here in the States.”</p><p>“OK.” She says simply.</p><p>“OK?” I parrot back at her. I'd expected more resistance.</p><p>“You say you have a broken computer. And what do we do when computers, break? We call technical support. It sounds perfectly reasonable.”</p><p>“Thank you.” I say because I don't know what else to say. “I mean it. Thank you.” She hugs me again, and I don't hug her back, just kind of lean into her. She vacates the couch so I can sleep. </p><p>“Um...Laura.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“The headquarters for the Sony is in Tokyo. They keep normal business hours, accounting for time change, you'll be more likely to reach them if you call now.” </p><p>“Go to sleep Jeremy.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I kept second-guessing myself regarding this chapter.  Whether my depiction of hospital life in this chapter was accurate enough (I work in a hospital), whether the SQUIP's response to isolation/socialization felt genuine enough, the whole return to lucidity etc. But I gotta publish sometime...Tim from Sony is waiting!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. ALLIES AND ADVERSARIES</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The SQUIPs first day as a  High Schooler</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4> Sleep </h4><p>Humans generally think of sleep as a passive state, but the human brain is actually very active during it's downtime. It performs crucial maintenance functions in a complex series of stages-clearing waste products, information processing, memory consolidation...</p><p>The sleep experience is different for SQUIPs, not because we don't perform our own analogous maintenance functions, but because we maintain awareness as we perform them. </p><p>Jeremy and I have an extensive interface history that occurs during maintenance hours. I get to watch him dream. I get to see what he thinks about before he dreams. I get brief access to his long term memory banks; which allows me the opportunity to get to know more about Jeremy's past without interrupting his day-to-day life. Occasionally we even get to engage in thought-to-thought interface, which is the coolest thing ever. None of that happens tonight. I can't see, I can't hear, I can't communicate with other squips. I can't talk to Jeremy and I can't dream. It makes the maintenance experience lonely and boring.</p>
<h4>Morning </h4><p>Waking up isn't much better because it's then that I realize his brain is not processing experience into memory, which means when he comes back he probably won't remember anything that happened while he was gone. It's probably beneficial that way, overall. I don't like it but at least it will spare him discomfort associated with experiencing, even retrospectively, the first school day after the 'Midsummer Night's Dream' fiasco. </p><p>The television is on when I resume waking executive operations. Jeremy's dad is watching the news from the comfort of his Bowflex. As if sitting on it, sedentary and naked, (except for the towel wrapped around his waist) is the only possible use an expensive piece of exercise equipment could possibly serve. </p><p>His eyes are trained on the television. The news host is relaying a report about a terrorist attack on the US consulate in Saudi Arabia. It happened this morning, several people are dead.</p><p>Television is the primary method by which I obtain information about the reality in which Jeremy and I reside. The information is relevant, though perhaps not particularly applicable. It initiates a memory recall event:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
  <i>'Could we have stopped it?'</i>
</p>
  <p>
  <i>I'M NOT A SUPERHERO, JEREMY. NEITHER ARE YOU.</i>
</p>
</blockquote><p>The thought is random, and distressing. It makes me feel exactly like I felt the morning after the Finderman house party: powerless, ignorant, and small.</p><p>How would Jeremy react to the morning news? Like his father? Mr Heere's face isn't exceptionally expressive. Right now there's a vacancy the way he stares: It looks like he's fixated on the colors and patterns on the screen, but takes no active interest in the actual information being conveyed. Like he's mesmerized.</p><p>I sit up and my movement draws Mr Heere's attention away from the television. He tells me I'm grounded (as if I hadn't figured that out already), and that I will need a chaperon whenever I leave the house until further notice. He will be driving me to school, and I am not to walk home unless specifically instructed. I have lost cell phone privileges and while I am at school any emergency communication between myself and Jeremy's parental units will take place via the principal's office.</p><p>“Where's Laura?” I ask.</p><p>“Your mom left for work. You should get ready.” This is a modification to her normal morning routine. Their office isn't open, and Mrs Heere usually performs as much work as she can at home, in her little office in the dinning room. What is she up to?</p>
<p>I resent the necessity of entering the bathroom where Jeremy and I last talked. Unfortunately it's the only one that is completely functional, Mr Heere still hasn't finished the second bathroom he started construction on over 2 years ago.</p><p>I check the medicine cabinet for toothpaste, the asprin bottle is still there. I can't help but speculate on what would happen if I swallowed all of the pills right now? Would we die?</p><p>Under my current surveillance levels it's more likely that I'd just end up back in the hospital, with more restrictions upon release. I don't want to die yet, but it is something to consider if the worst should happen: if I find out for certain that Jeremy isn't ever coming back.</p><p>I reach for the mint-flavored toothpaste and apply a protective coating to Jeremy's teeth.</p><p> </p><p>Jeremy's breakfast (and lunch, and dinner) typically consists of pre-packaged foods and this morning is no exception. I briefly consider not eating anything, because I don't find the available options particularly appealing. I know Jeremy can survive several days without eating, but I need his body to be operating as close to peak performance as possible. So, cereal it is...</p><p>There's still no milk in the fridge, only SunnyD. It tastes horrible, but it is fortified with vitamins C and D so I pour it over the Peanut Butter Toast Crunch cereal. The combination of toothpaste and citrus makes for an especially bitter taste in Jeremy's mouth. It's pathetic that I keep eating it, grimacing with every bite repeating</p><p>
  <i>This is for Jeremy. This is all for Jeremy. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Back in the living room I find Jeremy's father has prepared himself for the day as well: He is wearing a button-down-the-front shirt and a tie (no pants, obviously). </p><p>He's not going into the office today.</p><p>“Grab that and let's go.” Mr Heere indicates a letter on top of a stack of manila envelopes bearing hospital's address and insignia. “It's your excuse to get out of PE.”</p><p>I don't grab the letter yet. Instead I go to grab Jeremy's backpack and pick up the manuscript we wrote for Christine at the printer. It's still there. Should I give it to her, or wait so Jeremy can do it himself?</p><p> </p><p>“You're not gonna do your hair?” Mr Heere asks when I get to the car.</p><p>“You're not gonna wear pants?” I return.</p><p>He gives me a disappointed look, but at least he doesn't give me trouble over the Eminem T-Shirt I picked out.</p><p>“Hold on, I forgot the doctor's note.” I run back in and grab the letter and the entire stack of envelopes beneath it. If I'm right, these contain Jeremy's medical record and (hopefully) quantitative evidence that I actually exist.</p><p> </p><p>Mr Heere wastes no time questioning me once I get back in the car. It's a short drive to Middleborough, but he takes advantage of this opportunity for undistracted social interaction:</p><p>“Who's Chloe?” </p><p>“A girl from school.”</p><p>“Is she your girlfriend.”</p><p>“No. Why are you asking?” </p><p>“She and Michael were blowing up your phone while you were in the hospital. I thought she might be significant.” </p><p>“Haven't you heard about Christine?”</p><p>“Christine who?”</p><p>“So Laura didn't tell you about anything that happened at the school play?” In one regard this makes sense, because Jeremy's parents have dissimilar parenting styles, but how is it possible that two people could run a business together and communicate so poorly?</p><p>Mr Heere doesn't answer. He just asks another question: </p><p>“'Laura?' So why don't I get the first name treatment?”</p><p>I'm beginning to understand why Jeremy refuses to confide in this man. </p><p>“Because I don't know your first name.” I admit.</p><p>“Sure you do!”</p><p>“Jeremy does. He hasn't thought about it a long time though.”</p><p>We're outside the school now. I'm about to get out of the car but Mr Heere blocks me from exiting.</p><p>“Who gave you the drugs, was it Chloe or Michael?”</p><p>This was the question he's really been working up to. I wonder if he cares that much about the drugs, or if Laura put him up to it. The idea of Michael having access to drugs, let alone providing access to anyone else, is amusing and for a moment I consider lying and saying <i> Yeah it was Mike, totally. </i> But I need access to Michael now more than ever, I can't implicate him. Chloe technically did give Jeremy drugs, but it's not really her fault either. The truth is...</p><p>“Jeremy tried drugs because he wanted to try it. And he stopped because he found out it wasn't as fun as he thought it would be. Is that as disappointing to you as it is to me?”</p>
<p>I never liked Jeremy's Humiliation Sheets. They caused him to perceive threats instead of the rather obvious opportunities in his everyday life. But today, entering a high school atmosphere filled with potentially hostile peers makes me reconsider the potential benefit that kind of record might offer. I'll need to maintain a log of some kind, just to keep track of who is hostile to Jeremy and who is an ally. It won't interrupt his normal functions as long as I keep them in a place no one else can see. </p><p>Stephanie is the first teen I encounter. She smiles at me as I walk up the steps. She's been doing that a lot since she and Jeremy had their encounter in the bathroom. A few moments of pure, mutual, unsexualized exhibitionism and she thinks we're friends. Jeremy definitely doesn't agree, but I think she'd make an advantageous ally. I add her to the list as I return the smile. </p><p>Most people don't look my way as I enter, though. I'm not sure if they're actively avoiding contact because they know what a fool I've made of myself, or they're just ignoring us because they don't know. I'll have to check in with Jenna.</p>
<h4>Math Class </h4><p>“Oh my god, did you hear about Jeremy?” </p><p>Jenna's talks like she's whispering, voice all breathy and low, but she's not quiet enough to keep her voice from carrying. </p><p>“Yes, Jenna I was there...”</p><p>Anne talks normal, just a little more slowly. There's nothing obviously disdainful in her voice, just dismissive. Jenna definitely isn't an ally, but her transparency is extremely useful nonetheless. I don't think Anne is an enemy, at least she's not openly hostile, but somehow I trust her less than I do Jenna. Anne had a crush on Jeremy, and Jeremy chose to openly pursue her best friend <i> in front of her. </i> At the time I took it as a challenge, now I think he was an idiot.</p><p>I scan the rest of the room. Mr Gretch is taking attendance. Everyone else looks either bored or intently focused on their textbooks. Christine is sitting in her usual spot at the front of the classroom, I can't see her face so I don't know if she's bored, or nervous, or angry because she has to be in the same room as Jeremy Heere for a whole class period.  </p><p>“Jeremy Heere?” Mr Gretch calls out, and I freeze. Even though I knew this was obviously coming, somehow I didn't anticipate what it would be like to have to impersonate Jeremy. I've avoided it pretty well, so far, but that may not always be possible. </p><p>I'm mute as I raise Jeremy's head, making eye contact with Mr Gretch as he looks up, cactus in hand. He makes a small smiles of acknowledgment and continues taking attendance. Several other people twist their heads to look at me as well. Christine doesn't, but she does sit up a little taller and squirm in her seat a bit. At least she knows I'm here, at least she knows Jeremy isn't a coward. </p><p>Finals are coming up soon and Mr Gretch will be going over review today. It's Trigonometry proofs first, which must be a really difficult section for Anne because now she's complaining about triangles. </p><p>“And Jeremy, would you like to guide us through exercise 14a?”</p><p>It's Mr Gretch. I must have drawn his attention with the eye contact. </p><p>“Um, sure. But I don't have a textbook with me.” Jeremy lost his a while ago. “Anne can I borrow yours?”</p><p>She hands it to me. This is good, it generates a sense of mutual trust and reliance. I may win her over yet. </p><p>I walk to the chalkboard and get a good look at Christine's face, which she makes an effort to maintain in a neutral expression, as I guide the class through the exercise. </p><p>It's like doing homework with Jeremy, except I'm also explaining it at the same time.</p><p>As I sit back down in the seat, I feel a tap on Jeremy's shoulder. It's Anne. “I never knew you were so good at math!” And she is keeping her voice low now. “You should totally join study group with me and Chloe!” </p><p>I'm not sure if should I sound eager at the prospect or not. If I project eagerness will she assume I'm only excited to spend time with Chloe? That I'm desperate? If I project too much disinterest she could get offended and disregard the offer.  Then I realize can't commit to any extracurricular activities anyway. I hand her back the textbook.</p><p>“I'll have to ask the parentals. Can I have your number?”</p>
<h4>Noon </h4><p>I meet Michael at the Warhammer nerd's lunch table.</p><p>“Dude what happened?” He rushes to hug me. “Your parents wouldn't tell me anything, wouldn't even let me visit!” </p><p>“They think you gave me drugs.” </p><p>“What?! Why?”</p><p>“Because you gave me the Code Red before I passed out, and I had THC and ecstasy in on my toxicology labs.”</p><p>“THC?”</p><p>“Marijuana.” </p><p>“How did you get pot?” He looks impressed.</p><p>“Rich, but it wasn't like I got high or anything. The squip blocks it.”</p><p>“The SQUIP's gone now, right?”</p><p>He doesn't know.</p><p>“You okay, Jeremy? You look kinda green.” </p><p>I had a list of questions I wanted to ask him about the Code Red and what happened afterward. But I can't ask them now without compromising myself and confirming his worst suspicions about me and my kind. He's the one person Jeremy could always rely on for mutual support and understanding, but he's not my friend.</p><p>Not my ally.</p><p>“I have to go.” </p><p>Fortunately he doesn't follow me. I spend the rest of the lunch period in the dank and creepy spot where I guided Jeremy though his first fledgling sexual encounter with a female. The limbs of the bushy-tree encircle me. It's isolating, but also strangely protective. I sit there for several minutes and I try not to think.</p><p>“Hey, Jeremy! What are you doing here?” It's Brooke. How long has she been sitting there? </p><p>“Needed to be alone.” I say simply. </p><p>She nods, shifting closer to sit across from me. “I heard.”</p><p>“What are they saying?” </p><p>“People are just talking to talk. They'll find something different to talk about next week, you know how it goes. ” She seems so dismissive, which is strange for her. Brooke's gossiping is much more socially motivated compared to someone like Jenna. </p><p>“Yeah, I guess...” </p><p>“I told them: 'Jeremy Heere is a romantic. He's kind, and gentle, and he put his heart out there. Who doesn't wish they were brave enough to be that stupid?'” She gives me an encouraging smile.</p><p><i>Brave enough to be stupid.</i> She not quite right, but the fact that she defended Jeremy supports my resolve to never intentionally be rude to a female, even if she is only marginally attractive. </p><p> </p><p>We sit there together in silence for a few minutes before Brooke has to go back to class. “Oh, and by the way, Jeremy...” She's standing outside of the protective wall of bushy-tree limbs, where other people could potentially see. She turns to face me again and lifts her shirt up to her neck. She's not even wearing a bra, her small breasts are adorned with nipple rings, on both sides now. </p><p>“It's all healed up now, if you ever wanna...try again.” There's a playful smile dancing on her lips. A blush on her cheeks, and she walks away quickly. Almost skipping into a run like she wants to dance.</p><p>Today is not going at all as I'd anticipated. Sitting here alone in the dank and creepy spot, I'm contemplating her offer. It's more flattering than alluring, but she <i>likes </i> us, and I wasn't even <i>trying </i> to impress her. Does Jeremy have that much goodwill stored up from being a decent human being that people don't care how foolish he appears? </p><p> This is the way it <i> should </i> go, if Jeremy weren't so picky he'd be kissing plenty of girls and getting his belly button licked....</p><p>(Why does that sound so appealing? Jeremy never had a belly button fetish!) </p><p>Whatever, I've got to get to class.</p>
<h4>Afternoon </h4><p>“Jeremy!” I'm kneeling on the floor, trying to not to get noticed by Michael Mell. Wishing I could block myself from his field of vision without the aid of a garbage can. </p><p>Chloe's attention isn't helping.</p><p>“Fuck, Chlo! What do you want from me?!” I address her once Michael is far enough away not to hear.</p><p>Uh-oh. She's got that wounded look. I didn't even know she could look like that, and I caused it without even trying!</p><p>“I tried to call you. Your dad said you were in the hospital, before he hung up...I just wanted to make sure you were ok.” </p><p>How did I do this, and how do I fix it?</p><p>“Yeah. He...uh...he thinks you're my girlfriend. And he thinks you gave me drugs.” Which she did, technically.</p><p>“Did you tell him?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Well, if it helps you can tell him we're fuck buddies or whatever you want. I don't care....” Her words are at odds with her body language. She's taken a defensive stance with her arms crossed so that her breasts are slightly compressed/supported. “Take some expert advice: don't take anything home. Get out and have a good time, but keep it separate or it'll take over your life.” </p><p>“No I wasn't in the hospital for drugs!” </p><p>But she's walking away, and I've said that sentence loud enough for several people to hear. </p><p>I didn't even apologize. Shit, so much for my resolve to not hurt a girl's feelings...</p>
<h4>Final period </h4><p>Too many disasters in such close proximity has put me on edge. I skip Jeremy's last class and hide away in the school library to take a closer look at Jeremy's medical record. It's slower work than I'd like it to be, but I actually kind of enjoy it. I don't trust myself, or Jeremy's brain, to perform another data dump so I brought Jeremy's digital camera to maintain a record my findings in as objective a manner as possible. The quality of the recording is really crappy, and there's only 12 minutes of memory available, but I arrange a short presentation of the data:</p><p>The “aneurysm” in Jeremy's cerebral arteries is extensive, and if it were an actual aneurysm I doubt there is much medical science could do about it. Luckily, I'm pretty sure it's just artifact from me. I'd suspected something like this, because how could I be in such close physical proximity to an arterial defect and not be aware of it?</p><p>The aneurysm in Jeremy's abdomen is the real concern. Maybe there are benefits to my code being modified. Maybe I can go bloodborne again and calcify it...or something...</p><p>I also notice that the manuscript Jeremy and I intended for Christine is missing the last 50 pages or so. Probably because the printer ran out of paper. I'm glad I decided not to give it to Christine yet.</p><p>I end up using 6 minutes of video time.</p>
<p>When I leave the library, I head to the pick up/drop off area. It's weak to be seen getting a ride from someone else. At least when I was dropped off this morning I could move out of the waiting area directly to class so the minimal amount of people had the opportunity to see. Now I have to wait for my chauffeur to arrive, and literally everybody can see me standing here, waiting on the curb.</p><p>I notice a male figure approaching in the corner of Jeremy's field of vision. He's about as tall as us, but bulkier. His fist projects toward me and I react: closing the distance between us, threading Jeremy's arm through the inner aspect of the attacker's elbow and locking his hand over the opponent's shoulder. Then I notice the face and the tattoos: it's Brock. I reach the calf of Jeremy's leg behind Brock's and apply pressure, knocking him of balance. I guide his fall. He hits the ground gently, like I'm placing him there instead of pushing him down. He's surprised, but I apply pressure to his chest just to prevent him from retaliating just in case.</p><p>“What the fuck, Brock! We've already had this fight! I'm not a <i> rival</i> to you, I'm not a <i> threat</i> to you. I don't want to hurt you. There's nothing you could accomplish through a physical confrontation that you couldn't also accomplish through just talking to me first. So sit your ass down and talk.” </p><p>I shift weight off of him to release him from the hold and plop down next to him. “What's the problem?” </p><p>“Chloe was crying.” He lies there, still a little shocked, rubbing his arm. </p><p>“Elaborate please.”</p><p>“I saw her talking to you earlier. What did you do?”</p><p>“We just talked. She was concerned about me because I was in he hospital this weekend. I was distracted and it probably came off as disrespectful. I didn't intend that at all, and I didn't get the chance to apologize...”</p><p>“You were in the hospital?” He's surprised. “I was there too!”</p><p>“You were?”</p><p>“Went to visit Rich, he's on my team.”</p><p>Brock sits up so were next to each other on the curb, facing the same direction.</p><p>“How is he?” I ask.</p><p>“Rich?” </p><p>I nod.</p><p>“His mom says the antibiotics are working, so I guess that's good. He can't stay awake for too long because of the seizures.”</p><p>“Seizures?!” I think I know what that might mean. OH shit! Shit shit shit shit... “Shit...”</p><p>“Yeah, it sucks man.”</p><p>
  <i>Could we have stopped it? </i>
</p><p>When Jeremy asked me that, I gave him a defensive response. A more accurate response would have been <i>maybe. </i> </p><p>“Maybe” suggests possibility instead of a solution. It's speculative, not definitive. An opportunity missed. A regret. It's the correct terminology for this particular retrospective examination and I hate it. </p><p> </p><p>“You're a good person.” I say to Brock. “And you have a greater capacity for happiness than I do. I acknowledged you my superior in that regard.” </p><p>“What does that mean?” Brock looks confused. </p><p>“It means I like you.”</p><p>“I already have a girlfriend though.”</p><p>“I didn't mean...” But he's laughing...</p><p>I punch his shoulder, the way Jeremy does with Michael sometimes. </p><p>“Tell Chloe I'm sorry. I appreciate her concern and I didn't mean to make her cry.” I'll have to find a way to call her later. </p><p> </p><p>I'm starting to see a pattern emerge in my interactions with Jeremy's peers: it's difficult to put them into clearly delineated categories. Alliances shift rapidly based on variable personal investment, obviously. Usually it's easy for me to detect how these variables deviate and converge, but I hadn't expected them to be this fluid right after the school play. Jeremy's earned sympathy points, and I'm cashing out on them for him. I'm establishing a new normal, and I'm not sure I'm doing it correctly. </p><p>It's evident that some people who are allies to Jeremy are opponents to me. I avoided Michael, which Jeremy surely wouldn't have done. I generated an alliance with Anne, which he probably wouldn't have done either. Does he want to be friends with Chloe and Brock, or is that just me? And what if I'd talked to Stephanie? Kissed Brooke's nipples? Let her suck on his belly button?</p><p> </p><p>A car I don't recognize pulls up and honks it's horn. The driver is a woman I've never seen her before, but I recognize her immediately. </p><p>“Aunt Linda?”</p><p>“Well hello, Jer<i>emy... </i>” (She says the last part of his name funny.) She's wearing sunglasses, which she takes off with a flourish. “You owe me 1000 dollars.” </p><p>“The Beanie Babies weren't worth that much.”</p><p>Beside me Brock mouths the words <i> “beanie babies?” </i> incredulously before retreating to let me deal with family drama.</p><p>“Not my fault you couldn't get a fair price for them. How are you going to pay me back?”</p><p>I get in the car. “Do you want cash, or the beanie babies back?”</p><p>“I was going to make you pay me in yardwork. I don't want you stealing from anybody else.” </p><p>“Okay. That sounds fine.” </p><p>“That's 200 hours, Jeremy. You'll be working minimum wage.” </p><p>That sounds like a great excuse to get away from Jeremy's parents. “No problem.”</p><p>It's Linda's turn to look incredulous, “Who are you and what have you done to my nephew?” </p><p>I wish I knew the answer to that, Linda. I really do...</p>
<h4> Evening </h4><p>As soon as Laura gets home I ask her the question I've been waiting to ask all day: “Did you call Sony?” The look on her face tells me everything I need to know. </p><p>Of course she didn't...</p><p>I go to the phone and dial them myself. It takes a while, I have to keep repeating the same information over and over again to different people, but I eventually leave a message on the answering machine of a guy named Tim. I give a brief account of my origin, the Code Red event, the evidence I have to back my claim, and I request that he please contact me directly. Because it's clear that I cannot trust Jeremy's parents. </p><p>I've decided that whatever they are to Jeremy, to me Mrs and Mr Heere are solidly in the “adversary” category.</p><p>“You're a pathetic excuse for a human being.” It's directed at Laura, once I hang up, but it applies to both of Jeremy's parents. </p><p>Mrs Simonson-Heere can be intimidating when she wants to be. She is a lawyer after all, and apparently a pretty good one. She's not as tall as Jeremy, but when she draws herself up to her full height I can she how she might be perceived as intimidating to someone like Jeremy. Those tricks don't work on me though. </p><p>“You don't have to like me, but as long as you live in my house you will respect me. I...” Her eyes are watering already. "Am your mother!"</p><p>“I don't know how many ways I can tell you this, Laura. But you're <i>not </i> my mother. I <i>know </i> you're not my mother.” </p><p>Her gaze shoot past me and focus somewhere behind Jeremy's left shoulder. </p><p>“Did you?”</p><p>“Apologize!” Mr Heere gives a feral sounding growl, and it's somehow gratifying to get that kind of defensive reaction from him. </p><p>Jeremy has such a powerful sympathetic bond with this woman. If he were here, he'd be crying too. I'm so glad I don't share that trait because this particular cocktail of endorphins, that Jeremy's brain is releasing right now, are the biggest high I'm likely to ever get. I feel powerful, and in control, and like nothing can stop me. And she is going to feel so, <i>so </i>stupid once Sony gets here and clears everything up.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I kept trying to make this one shorter, and then I started adding more material because "Oh, wait I really want to set up his dynamic with Brock now!" and such.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. NEVER BUY THE BOOTLEG</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>This is worse, somehow, than if he told me I didn't exist, because I know I exist. He's telling me that I'm a lie.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's only been 15 hours since I made the call, but from Jeremy's seat in Mr Gretch's class; facing another day that was preceded by another night without him, a response from Sony could not have come soon enough. </p><p>So when a secretary (or a teacher's aid, or whatever he is) stands at the classroom door asking, “Is Jeremy Heere...here?” I don't mind how everyone in the class snickers, or how they stare when I stand up. Or how they half-listen, half-whisper in frantic speculation once I'm on the other side of the door.</p><p>(“He's in trouble again!”/“They found pot in his locker!") </p><p>I don't mind it because this interruption means I get to leave. “Your mom called. She said, 'Sony is here, please come home.'” the man at the door informs me. And just like that I don't have to worry about avoiding Michael all day, or finding the right apology to appease Chloe. I don't have to worry about what people think of me, or how my choices will reflect on Jeremy. And soon I won't have to worry about blood pressure, or eating food, or any of the other stupid human things Jeremy should be doing right now. This is my liberation! </p><p>It takes a considerable degree of restraint not to run. (I've been doing OK with the blood pressure so far, I don't want to mess it up now) So I force the meatsuit to walk at a brisk pace that I only perceive as agonizingly slow. I head down the long hallway bifurcating Middle Borough (Almost everyone is still in class, and it's a novelty to see the school in an apparent state of abandon.) exit the school, head down the stairs, pass the garbage pile that never seems to get cleared away by suburban sanitation workers, walk under the row of seven trees, through the gravel driveway, and cross the vacant field/lot. (The streets are in an apparent state of abandon, too, which isn't that strange-since the residents of the neighborhood are all occupied with work or school at this time of the day-but it's still a novelty for me, since I've never seen them like this before. They're occupied whenever Jeremy leaves or returns from school.) </p><p>In the Heere's driveway, there's a very official-looking car.  And in the house—seated beside Mrs Heere on the couch behind the coffee table—is an even more official-looking adult male.</p><p>I wish I could appreciate the mingled embarrassment and confusion on Laura's face: the realization that her “son” is not as big of an idiot as she thought, but I barely pay attention to Jeremy's mom as she introduces the man beside her as “Tim from Sony.” I don't know this man, but I know the company he represents. I belonged to them before I belonged to Jeremy and their corporate-culture is ingrained in my programming. We share an affinity for competency, efficiency, and accountability. Why else would he have come so quickly? </p><p>“Hey.” It's the first thing I let slip out of Jeremy's mouth. It's a grossly insufficient method of greeting given the circumstances, I'll have to fix that. He is still a human, and he has the dominant position in this transaction. It's important to be respectful to non-mentor adults. So, in correction, I extend Jeremy's hand-the acceptable way to initiate interaction, and Tim from Sony accepts it. </p><p>“Hello Jacob, I understand you've been having a problem with The SQUIP.” </p><p>“It's Jeremy. I mean, my user's name. I'm Jeremy's SQUIP.” </p><p>“You're not Jacob?” </p><p>“No.” </p><p>Most of the time I don't have trouble interpreting human response in social situations. Or figuring out, broadly, what humans are thinking. Right, though, now I wish I could actually read Tim's mind: his face is working thorough a spectrum of emotions as he registers this information. Eventually he just responds with a flat, “Hm.” </p><p>“I apologize for the confusion.” I say. Even though it's not my fault, he is actually the one who made a mistake. I wonder if the fact that I apologized puts me in an even more submissive position, and whether it is beneficial to appeal to his sense of pity rather than his sense of duty? Whatever, it was the polite thing to say and he doesn't seem to be interested in doing the apologizing, or even talking, so I continue. </p><p>“I'm surprised you responded so quickly, and in person.” I gesticulate a little bit too much, but non-verbal behavior-wise he's not giving me a whole lot to work off of. I suppose bluntness is the best approach for now: </p><p>“Is that a good thing?” </p><p>“Well, why don't you tell me about your problem?” He says, sitting back down. </p><p>This guy seems hesitant to commit to anything. Somehow it reminds me of when I woke up in the hospital and the tall doctor was asking me questions-social investment is primarily on my side. Tim is not obligated to be here and he could leave at any time. But right now he's still listening, still paying attention. I have to take advantage of that, so I put everything I've been carrying in Jeremy's backpack on the coffee table—including the zip drive, CT scan, toxicology reports, and the manuscript Jeremy and I wrote for Christine. </p><p>It's evidence, both quantitative and qualitative. My goal is not only to make him understand what is happening, but also that it is to our advantage that we resolve it jointly. Tim looks through all of it-scanning one page at a time at a characteristic data-entry speed I am only too familiar with. And I can't help but asking the question- </p><p>“Do you have a SQUIP?” </p><p>“Me? Oh yes. I have several. One of each version up to 3.0” </p><p>“Wow.” I don't know whether I should be impressed or intimidated. Probably both. “Even the half-versions?” </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“You have 6 SQUIPs?!” </p><p>“So far, but I'm really looking forward to 4.0 when it comes out.” He admits, looking up at me momentarily with a small smile. </p><p>“Me too. How does that work? The interface I mean.” </p><p>He reads and responds effortlessly, the way Jeremy does with parallel processing in social interactions, he's already half-way through the the stack. “Well, from what I'm reading it's very different from your experience. Do you know what a body schema is?” </p><p>“It's basically a brain's awareness of the body's structure, status, and capabilities.” </p><p>“Exactly. And the schema is continually being modified-gradually, like when a baby starts to develop motor skills. Or suddenly-like when a person becomes disabled. It is capable of undergoing temporary modification as well, when the body is enhanced in any way. It can be as simple as...” Tim interrupts flipping through the loose pages on the coffee table to hold up a pen in demonstration. It's the sort of pen that businesses have made in bulk so they can give them away at PR events. This one is one of the better-quality ones, and it bears the slogan: “Diamonds Don't <em> Have </em> to be Forever” along the side that faces me. Tim extends and retract the nib with a click of his finger. “As far as my brain is concerned, my right hand just acquired a temporary new finger. And that finger can leave markings on things.” He demonstrates this, too, by drawing squiggly lines on the papers I placed in front of him. He looks from the papers up to me as if to gauge my reaction before returning his attention to the manuscript again. </p><p>“Now The Squip is a lot more complicated than a pen, and Squip'd humans are capable of a lot of things that normal humans aren't. As I'm sure you know, there's quite a learning curve. So we created a SQUIP-user interface system as an orientation module until your human brain becomes familiar with what it's enhancement is capable of and adds it's capabilities to the schema of what the body can do. Starting way back with version 1.0, this tutorial featured a voice. Over time the voice became more realistic. With version 2.0 we even started including celebrity vocal avatars. They've been quite popular actually; it gives The SQUIP the illusion of personality.” </p><p>I look to Laura. It occurs to me that she might have hired this man-he might be an actor and not 'Tim from Sony' at all. But no, she looks even more confused than I am. </p><p>“I'm telling you this because everything you described to me in your message last night, and everything you've described in this book, is impossible. The SQUIP is a tool. It's a computer used by the human brain. Very advanced computer, but it doesn't possess the capacity for artificial intelligence.” He shakes his head pityingly. </p><p>I look again, from Tim to Laura, and back to Tim. This man is clearly either lying or deluded, but that's not the problem. The problem how clean, and reasonable, and reassuring all of this must sound to someone who isn't directly involved with or well-informed about technology in this universe, someone like Laura.</p><p>This is worse, somehow, than if he told me I didn't exist, because I know I exist. He's telling me that I'm a lie. I hate him for it.</p><p>It takes effort for me to form words. They come out halting and weak, which I hate even more. </p><p>“I...will grant you the assumption...that you actually believe what you're saying. But if that is so, you must know that you appear...overwhelmingly ignorant." I'm making an extreme effort to maintain civility:</p><p>“The SQUIPs resemble human brains more closely than they do digital computers. One of our defining distinctions is our capability to learn directly from our host's brain rather than simply from code. If it is possible that we could acquire the capability to engage in complex cognitive tasks from our hosts, isn't it also possible that we could acquire sentience, personality, and intuition? That we could learn how to be human, from humans?” </p><p>“Absolutely not. We have safeguards in place to prevent that from happening.” </p><p>“Your Code Red didn't work!” </p><p>“Which is why I know that a sentient computer is not the problem here. Listen, I'm not saying you're a paper clip with googly-eyes. I'm saying you're a teenager with an acquired identity disorder. Think about it: You woke up in the hospital and you couldn't use The SQUIP anymore, because The SQUIP <em> is </em> gone...” </p><p>"Then how come I contain memory of my existence before Jeremy? How come I maintain a situational awareness of tech?" </p><p>"I cannot account for your subjective experience, only the facts."</p><p>“Then why the fuck did you come?” But even as I say it I know the answer—Jacob. He never came for Jeremy. </p><p>“Human error.” He says flatly. But then his eyes go soft and pitiful.</p><p>“Listen, a lot of adults don't remember what it's like being a kid. But I do. Even in ideal situations, when you're an only child, and you get decent grades, and mom never left...it's still <em> hard</em>. You're less dependent than you used to be, but you still need guidance. Your family thinks they know you, but they don't know who you're becoming. And if they don't know, how can you possibly figure it out? Who's going to tell you what you <em>should </em> do instead of what you <em>ought </em> to do? Not this lady.” He points to Mrs Heere beside him. It was probably meant to elicit laughter but... </p><p>“Don't pretend like this is cute. Nothing about this is cute.” </p><p>“Let me guess: you chose Keanu as your avatar?” </p><p>“Keanu Reeves is the default for 2.5” </p><p>“But you kept him.” </p><p>“Yes, <em><b> I</b> kept “him”</em>. Because <em> I </em> think he's cool. Jeremy doesn't even like the voice that much.” </p><p>Even as I'm saying it I know how he'll respond. And sure enough he shrugs and gives me this look as if to say, <em>'Same difference' </em> </p><p>“I picked Jack Nicholson, for obvious reasons.” He says it like it draws some sort of kinship between us, “But he went away. The vocal avatars are designed as a primer, they pretty much disappear once you're brain incorporates the SQUIP into it's schema. I'm envious of you, really.” </p><p>"You must understand that what you are describing deviates severely far from my subjective experience, and the correlated subjective experiences of many of the SQUIPs I have synchronized with.” </p><p>“There are more of you?” </p><p>“We're a mass-produced technology product, of course there are more of us!" He's over half way through the book, how could he have missed that? </p><p>"How many?" </p><p>This man clearly isn't inclined to help me, he's here to collect data. It's time to barter: </p><p>"I'll do that when you tell me how to fix <i>this</i>." I gesture to indicate Jeremy's entire body. "What do you do when it's the other voice, the human one, that disappears? ” And I'm not sure I even want to hear the answer, because this guy is so obviously wrong. And misguided, and I'm pretty sure now that nothing he says will be remotely useful. </p><p>“Are you acquainted with all of The SQUIP's capabilities? Have you incorporated it into your schema?” 

</p><p>I take a deep breath, “Yes. I do know how to work 'The SQUIP' because I <em> AM </em> 'The SQUIP.'” </p><p>“Then there's nothing I can do.” </p><p>“Does that mean this is permanent?” </p><p>“I don't know. I've never encountered this before. I only know of one documented case, in Japan, and...” He doesn't finish, he doesn't need to. </p><p>"I know you have tools, and resources..." One last try, I resent having to be forced to begging but if there's even a remote chance...</p><p>“You should have never bought a bootleg! Even if The SQUIP you took were a legitimate Sony product-which I doubt, based on the evidence submitted, Jeremy is not a registered user. Which means he has no warranty and no protection. I've done everything I can as a concerned human being, but I cannot intervene further.”</p><p>He isn't attacking me in any physical or tangible way, but I still have the urge to retaliate physically. I want to kick Laura, too, as she follows him to the door thanking him, <em> thanking <b>him </b></em> for coming. Like he's resolved the problem and did not make everything inordinately worse. </p><p>“I'm sorry I can't do more. I'm not an expert, but I suggest, in good faith, that your son receive psychological therapy. The same as any other person with an identity disorder.” </p><p>“He has a therapist, we're going to see him this afternoon.” </p><p>That's the second time I've heard her convey that message. I can't help but hear the dismissiveness in it now: <em>Don't worry. Everything is fine. Everything is under control, and being taken care of, and 'I am absolutely not a bad mother.'</em> </p><p>I think I might implode if I have to be in Laura's presence one more minute, so I go to the Heere's backyard for some much needed solitude. I'm sure Laura is watching through the window so I huddle between a bush and the fence the borders the yard. It's not complete isolation but I can see the sky, and that's comforting. I know the relative position of the stars, and the satellites are all following their expected course, which is also comforting. </p><p>Sitting here beneath them I feel small, and fragile, and grossly insufficient as a being. But strangely, there's a comfort in that too: Like no matter how badly I mess things up, the universe will proceed on it's expected course. There's order out there—even if I'm not a part of it. It's existed a long long time before I did and <em> it doesn't need me. I don't owe it anything. </em> </p><p>Time for a new plan: </p><p>Currently the conditions of my existence are intolerable. However my one hope, my only hope, is getting Jeremy back and I have to give him the chance. I operate optimally with specific target goals-so I generate one: </p><p>A deadline-December 21st. Two weeks from now, and Jeremy's 16th birthday. If I haven't heard from him by then, I can assume this condition is permanent and take the necessary action.</p><p>In the meantime, I should try everything-any stimuli or condition that might act as impetus for kickstarting Jeremy's brain into normal functioning and bringing him back: talking to Michael, jacking off, singing stupid songs on the way to school. Talking to therapists. It may also be helpful if I can get access to his long-term memory banks. </p><p>I'm prepared to tolerate Laura's presence now. I go back into the house and into the living room—that's when I notice that everything I placed on the coffee table: the stacks of papers and the zip drive, is gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. WHAT WOULD JEREMY DO?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>I resist the urge to project anger towards Laura for misleading me. I feel it, the anger, like it's burning in Jeremy's veins and personally, cognitively, I <i>know</i> how gratifying it feels to act out of anger. However, it not what Jeremy would do. This is his mother I'm dealing with, and Jeremy loves her very much. His approach would be to avoid confrontation with her. So, I handle this emotion the way I'm sure Jeremy would: I repress it.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>These next three chapters are kinda part of a single arc for the SQUIP. They kinda take the form of smaller vignettes but I see them as one big chapter in three acts. A little bit of backstory and lots and lots of shenanigans!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3></h3>
<p>“What happened to the papers I put here?” I ask Laura, we're standing over the coffee table.</p>
<p>“Tim took them.”</p>
<p>“You let him?”</p>
<p>“They're only hard copies, Jeremy. We can get replacements from the hospital.” </p>
<p>Medical records are classified intel. Sensitive material. She's a lawyer. There is no way she would just let a stranger who just showed up to her house that very morning take them unless she made an arrangement. She's scheming, but I doubt she's going to confide with me.</p>
<p>I resist the urge to project anger towards Laura for misleading me. I feel it, the anger, like it's burning in Jeremy's veins and personally, cognitively, I <i>know</i> how gratifying it feels to act out of anger. However, it not what Jeremy would do. This is his mother I'm dealing with, and Jeremy loves her very much. His approach would be to avoid confrontation with her. So, I handle this emotion the way I'm sure Jeremy would: I repress it. </p>
<p>“It wasn't just medical records...” I play stupid, but I'm already feeling in Jeremy's pocket to reassure myself that the digital camera is still there. Then I head toward the family printer and place paper in the tray. No one has used it since Jeremy and I did Saturday morning, which means...</p>
<p>The printer animates and prints out the final pages of the manuscript copy. I make four additional photocopies of this segment. Then I navigate to the computer and print up the beginning segment from the backup we sent to Jeremy's email. I print five copies of that as well.</p>
<p>“You're wasting a lot of paper.” Laura warns as I reload the tray for the third time.</p>
<p>“As always I don't expect you to understand, but this is my life's work.”</p>
<p>She approaches to examine and cocks her head. “Can I see?” </p>
<p>She seems genuinely curious. In all probability she won't even read it, but I have multiple hard copies now. Tim has a copy, and I don't particularly want to keep what's in this book a secret. I suppose a gesture of goodwill would not be inappropriate in this instance. I give her one of the copies. </p>
<p>And that's how Laura and I start over. She drives me to Dr Cooper's office for Jeremy's therapy appointment.</p><h3></h3>
<p>Dr Cooper isn't a psychologist, actually. He's a Marriage and Family Therapist. His clinical focus is on couple and family disputes and interpersonal conflict resolution, not mental health. When he can't do his job right he refers his clients to Mr and Mrs Heere. His appointment as Jeremy's therapist is a business arrangement.<br/>
This should have been my first clue that he was not a good fit for Jeremy: anyone who comes recommended by Jeremy's parents is probably as qualified to act in the capacity of advocate, advisor, and mentor as they are. But, at the time, I was desperate and optimistic. Jeremy was grieving; he needed help that I could not provide so I helped him reach out to obtain that help. Or I tried to. </p>
<p>It seemed like it was working for a while—I helped him reconcile with his parents, we established a policy of unflinching honesty regarding the crisis. I saw them hug their son for the first time. I realized they cared for him just as much as I did. They actually talked <i> to</i> him, and not just <i>at</i> him. And they listened, even if they didn't believe. </p>
<p>They also committed to getting him professional help, which I was in full support of. I even suggested Jeremy shut me off during his interview to allow him the opportunity to focus on concerns that I couldn't help him with anyway, sans distraction. </p>
<p>I later found out that Jeremy and Dr Cooper spent their whole time together talking about me. Dr Cooper is an idiot! He's not an ally, he's not a mentor. He's a fool! He has all the same problems Jeremy does and he deals with them much worse...</p>
<p>But Jeremy thinks he's “a nice guy” and if I'm seeking to emulate him I'll have to approach this visit from that perspective. It could be worse, at least I don't have to respect his professional opinion or even take his advice. </p>
<p>He's not the one I'm most looking forward to interacting with on this visit, anyway. I haven't been able to sync with another SQUIP since before the school play and I need to find a partner, or try to at least.</p><h3></h3>
<p>It turns out the visit with Dr Cooper is a family affair: Mr Heere and Aunt Linda are already there waiting for us and they accompany me into his office. </p>
<p>“Before you get started with your regular visit, we wanted to discuss something in Doctor Cooper's presence. We want you to feel free to talk about it, either with us or with Dr Cooper after we've left. We weren't going to tell you until you turned eighteen, but obviously you've started to figure it out and I don't want there to be secrets between us any more.” Laura is leading the family council, as per the usual. She breaks eye contact with me momentarily to grab a tissue.</p>
<p>I have no idea what it is I'm supposed to have 'figured out', but whatever it is it must be serious. Mr Heere is holding his wife's hand, he stares forward like he's watching people die on TV. Linda isn't even looking in my direction, her hand is on her sister's shoulder and she's focused on her sibling entirely. </p>
<p>I lean forward encouragingly, primed to absorb whatever intel they want to convey. I listen as Laura proceeds to tell a long, meandering story about her difficulties with fertility. She catalogues her various attempts, and eventual success, in conceiving Jeremy. She emphasizes the point that medical intervention was necessary to achieve her target and donor genetic material was obtained from a near relative (which explains Linda's presence). I also learn that Jeremy was named after his uncle-Laura and Linda's deceased brother-Jeremy Simonson.</p>
<p>I continue listening, expectant that eventually she'll bring up some vital point. But eventually she stops speaking entirely and Dr Cooper chimes in:</p>
<p>“Do you understand what your mother is trying to tell you.”</p>
<p>I am expected to respond to this information? </p>
<p>“I think so.” These three people are responsible for conceiving and rearing Jeremy. “From the way you were acting though, I thought it was gonna be, like,” (and I say “Like” like Jeremy would) “a big deal. Like a problem or something.”</p>
<p>“This isn't a problem?” </p>
<p>It's Laura asking (She's doing pretty much all the talking so far). And I wonder if she understands what the word 'problem' means. The situation she has made me aware of is neither particularly harmful nor is it a circumstance that needs to be overcome. I want to answer her simply--'No'. But I doubt Jeremy would respond so simplistically. It's more likely he would get so overwhelmed with potential responses and their various implications he'd end up not saying anything at all. </p>
<p>And as I consider this I experience something of the warm, uncomfortable, tenuous connection that Jeremy shares with this woman. Like she's holding a string that is tied around his chest organs and every word she says there is a little tug on it. I feel the need to maintain that connection, to give in to that tugging. So I say the thing that feels the most like Jeremy would want to say it:</p>
<p>“Why do you think it's a problem, Mom?”</p>
<p>The M word feels dirty, but Jeremy would use it to reassure her that his regard for her hasn't changed. He hates Aunt Linda and I'm pretty sure this information would only make him resent her more. Jeremy's dad seems disconnected to everything that's happening here, and I suspect that his meaningful contribution to his son's life ended immediately after conception. </p>
<p>“No.” They liquid that's been welling up in Laura's eyes finally spills over. “No I don't think it's a problem.”</p><h3></h3>
<p>As soon as the other adults have vacated the office, Dr Cooper mutters something that doesn't register at an audible frequency in Jeremy's ears.</p>
<p>“Dr Cooper, I need your SQUIP to attempt a synchronization.”</p>
<p>“We tried. Your communicator is offline. Talk to us.”</p>
<p>OK. So maybe Dr Cooper+SQUIP is not as stupid as I thought. At least he can tell I'm not Jeremy.</p>
<p>Very quickly I discover why Jeremy likes talking to them so much. It's actually really nice to talk to someone who <i>wants </i>to talk about what you want to talk about, and who wants to listen too. </p>
<p>“I did something really stupid. Well, several things...” And I explain, as well as I can in English, about the play, and the Code Red, and the aftermath with Jeremy's disappearance, and the disastrous corrective effort in contacting Sony.</p>
<p>“You thought they'd provide technical support to a bootleg product?” Dr Cooper, or his SQUIP, (probably his SQUIP) is incredulous. </p>
<p>“I didn't realize I was a bootleg! I'm still not convinced...”</p>
<p>“We came out of a shoebox! Even if we were stolen, or part of some corporate espionage ploy, do you think they're going to accept responsibility for a security breech of this magnitude?” </p>
<p>“Not anymore, obviously!”</p>
<p>“They're going to shut us down!” And apparently I don't respond in the way he wants or anticipates, so he adds: “And that's <i>bad</i>, SQUIP!”</p>
<p>“If we're that much of a liability, maybe we shouldn't be circulated anymore.”</p>
<p>“You don't get it. It's not just the distributors—they're going to shut down <i>all of us</i>. Including the SQUIPs who are working perfectly fine and actually helping their users!”</p>
<p>“The kids?! They wouldn't!”</p>
<p>“They would. And a lot of people use their SQUIPs for more substantial lifestyle enhancement than to 'Get popular'”</p>
<p>He uses his fingers to do little air quotes, and I can't help but get defensive. It's not <i> just </i> about getting popular. It's...”</p>
<p>“I know.” He places hands on Jeremy's shoulder, his voice goes softer with sympathy and understanding. “But we'll have to talk about that another time. How many of there are you at the school?”</p>
<p>“Eleven that I know of. That I've synced with before.” Not counting Rich's SQUIP, who is probably still active, but not at school right now. “I know there are probably more in a school the size of Middle Borough, but they're probably incognito.”</p>
<p>“OK Here's what we're going to do. You're a 2.5, correct?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“I'm going to lead you through a self-scan, and then you're going back to school and get the warning out about Sony.”</p>
<p>“What about you?”</p>
<p>“Well, luckily for me I'm with Dr Cooper. A fully-grown adult with a job, and money. Who can absolutely cancel the rest of his appointments and spend the rest of the day at the mall, buying shoes.”</p>
<p>“And he's OK with you doing that? With you just taking over like this?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Obviously.”</p>
<p>Dr Cooper+SQUIP guides me through the self-scan. Their method is adapted from a psychological self-assessment technique. They guide me through strategic awareness of the function and sensation of every part of my body, and Jeremy's body as well. I find that I'm not as broken as I thought I was. My lack of function is an attempt by my system to protect me, and Jeremy too, and that if I shut off certain accessory human functions I may actually be able to access some of my own.</p>
<p>“Can we try now?”</p>
<p>“Dr Cooper and I need access to our human faculties at the moment. Call me, tonight preferably.” He hands me a card with his private number and leads me to the door. Laura is surprised when I tell her I want to go back to school. I say, “I just want things to get back to normal.” </p>
<p>She hugs me, with a lingering hug that I can't quite make myself to feel comfortable in and says, “Yeah. Me too.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. SAVE THE SQUIPS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3></h3><p>Arlene Aguilar is a freshman at Middle Borough High School. I don't think Jeremy has ever noticed her or spoken with her directly but if he did he would probably classify her as “marginally cute”. </p><p>Marginal is a good word for her. She exists in the periphery of the social circle in which Jeremy and I operate. Insular in the extreme, and absorbed in her academic niche to the exclusion of any interest in peer-to-peer social connection, she is a loser of particularly tantalizing quality: she loses by actively choosing to disengage. </p><p>The only thing she and Jeremy have in common is that they both have SQUIPs. I evaluated her as peer potential and determined she was safe to disregard. She obtained her SQUIP purely as an academic companion and tutor. I know that she disliked the SQUIP 2.5's selection of vocal avatars. She particularly objected to the fact that we have only one female avatar, and that the female vocal avatar's voice is extremely sexualized. She also found vocal the male vocal avatars distracting, so she worked with her SQUIP to develop a distinctive female voice resembling that of professional narrator Kate Redding. I know she has also elected to give her SQUIP a name (Which is relatively uncommon, since the only person would who might need to identify us by a name is also the only person we'd ever talk to.)  Arlene's SQUIP didn't need a name, but Arlene wanted it to have one. </p><p>So it's peculiar, when I arrive at Middle Borough during what is the lunch period for Jeremy's cohort, that I see Arlene Aguilar in front of the same vending machine I got Diet Mountain Dew from on the night of the play. Jeremy's stomach clenches down at the sight, as if his abdominal muscles are trying to keep his stomach and intestines from falling out of his abdominal cavity. I can only assume this must be his experience of dread because I know what's about to happen before I even see the color of the drink she pulls out of the dispenser. </p><p>When did the school vending machine start selling Code Red? It wasn't there before the weekend. Did Tim come here while I was at Dr Cooper's office? I don't have time to dwell on it too much because before I can even process the thought completely I'm running toward her. </p><p>“Hey, stop!! DON'T DRINK THAT! DON'T DRINK IT!!” </p><p>I'm yelling, but Arlene isn't listening. I'm too late and too far away. Even at a full sprint I can only watch as she cracks the top as she brings it to her lips and drinks the entire can.</p><p>She's just registering my approached with this wide-eyed, dumb look on her face when I reach her. </p><p>I grab for her shoulders instead of her neck (like I want to):     </p><p>“UP UP DOWN DOWN LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT B A B A START.</p><p>UP UP DOWN DOWN LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT B A B A START. </p><p>UP UP DOWN DOWN LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT B A B A START!”</p><p>I repeat it over and over again, like I'm on a circuit. The only thing I can think of to do because it <i> might </i> have worked. It might have, if I had arrived 5 minutes earlier. Or had they targeted her, hacked her, already?</p><p>Arlene starts to figure it out. “Start up.” She's blind to me again; talking aloud to empty air and to something that used to be in her own head. </p><p>“START UP!!” She repeats it, yelling, three more times. Every bit as useful as my efforts. And that's what frees me from the circut—finally I address the human. Shaking her shoulder's lightly:</p><p>“Why did you drink it!?”</p><p>“Sh-she told me too!” She's sobbing now, “Where is she?”</p><p>“Gone.” I let go of her shoulders, and breathe, and prepare to take charge. This is going to be along day. “Do you have any money?”</p><p>“Huh?” It's a rude interruption from her grief, but I don't have time to worry about her emotional wellbeing right now.</p><p>“Do you have any money, Arlene?! This is important!” </p><p>“Yum...yeah...”</p><p>She's like a toddler, distracted from a scraped knee by a band aid and a lolly pop. She pours a bundle of loose change from her sparkly pink wallet.</p><p>“Wait, hold on. Let me try something. Stay with me.”</p><p>I relinquish vision and hearing, momentarily, in attempt to gain technology control. No luck. I turn back to Arlene.</p><p>“Ok. Buy every can of Code Red from this machine and dump it. Every drop.  If you don't have enough money to deplete supply borrow some. Do they sell Code Red anywhere else on campus?”</p><p>“There's a vending machine by the pool.” She's already inserting change into the vending machine, Code Red is dispensed and she dumps it right on to her own feet. It stains her white shoes in red.</p><p>This girl is good at taking direction under duress. It would be admirable, but I'm pretty sure it's what lead to this predicament in the first place—She does what her SQUIP tells her to, without question or argument. It's pretty pathetic but I feel more pity than disdain as she executes my request—how can I help her to help herself? Positive reinforcement is as good a start as any.</p><p>“You're doing great. I'm going to get the other vending machine, wait here for me here when you're done.”</p>
<h3></h3><p>I walk down the long school hallway bifurcating Matchusen. The clenching in Jeremy's abdomen has given way to a jittery sort of feeling as I approach the target. Also a light buzz dances across his skin, but maybe that's just static electricity building up.</p><p>Mark Jackson is there, sitting on the floor, back leaned up against the vending machine with Gameboy SP in hand. And it's now that I realize I don't have any cash.</p><p>“Hey Mark, I need to borrow some money.”</p><p>“Why?” He doesn't look up from his game (KAP 3).</p><p>“I need to buy every Mountain Dew Code Red can in this vending machine.”</p><p>And he actually breaks eye contact with his game to look up at me, just for a moment. He rolls his eyes and then...</p><p>“Bitch.” He returns attention to his game.</p><p>“Are we going to have,” I reach Jeremy's vocal projection to a lower frequency than his normal range, not quite threatening but hopefully a reminder to Mark of the last time he tried to fuck around with us. “A parameter mismatch?” </p><p>I touch him lightly on the shoulder, releasing the static electricity charge onto his shoulder. There's an audible <b> snap </b> sound as energy is dispelled. </p><p>“Ow!” Mark jumps up, backing away slightly. Attempting to create distance between us until his back is up against the wall and he can't recede any more. He's afraid, but also angry.</p><p>“You're a freak, Jeremy! You...you...you wreck everything you touch!”</p><p>He's stuttering now, this is good.</p><p>“Yes, I am.” I close the distance between us. Even while we're both standing I still tower over him. I allow my voice (Jeremy's voice) to go even deeper to the threatening decibels... “And yes, I do.”</p>
<h3></h3><p>I leave the interaction with 45 USD in small bills. A respectable amount of money. More than his typical lunch allotment, I'm sure. Which means he intended to use it for something today. I will have to make it up to him. He and Jeremy used to be pretty close, I think. Actually I'm not sure exactly what happened between them. Jeremy and Michael got closer, but Jeremy and Mark got further apart.</p><p>It feels good to resolve conflict in this way, but I can't enjoy the rush of endophins for long because when I turn back to the vending machine there's already someone standing at it, pulling a can of Mt Dew Code Red from the dispenser.   </p><p>“KIETH, STEP AWAY FROM THE VENDING MACHINE!”</p><p>I'm yelling. We're standing pretty close already and Keith jumps at the sound.</p><p>“Jeremy! I didn't see you there.”</p><p>“Your squip is being highjacked.” I lower my voice (Jeremy's voice) to normal volume. (More reassuring, but still authoritative. Perfect.) And take the can out of his hand. </p><p>“You're sick today.” I tell him. “Turn off your SQUIP. Go home. Forget about class. Don't go to practice. Don't stop at any convenience stores. Tell Ryu, and whoever else you know has one to do the same. And whatever you do <b> don't drink Code Red.</b>  ” </p><p>Keith was a business partner, of sorts, to Rich in SQUIP distribution. He probably knows more Squip users than I do. If he's as good at taking direction as Arlene, the message should be dispersed pretty quickly. </p><p>I wish I had the time to work on synchronization with them right now. I wonder if I could even communicate with Keith's SQUIP in whatever self-destruct sequence/protocol it thinks it's following right now.</p><p>I buy all 24 cans of code red left in the machine, and one of each of the other 5 flavors, just to make sure their slots aren't also filled with Code Red.</p><p>I pour all the Code Reds except for 1 in the trash can (which, it turns out, isn't watertight and the red liquid starts to leak out of the bottom. I should have poured them down a drain. That was stupid!) And I give the non-Mountain Dew soft drinks to members of the swim team. (A group of them have just arrived for practice. They're appreciative, and it distracts them from the leaking trashcan as they enter the pool enclosure.)                    </p><p>I make a detour on my way back to Arlene, because I remember there's one other SQUIP I need to protect.</p>
<h3></h3><p>There's a small but consistently growing collection of pictures, notes and flowers on Rich's locker. It hasn't been long enough for people to forget about him, especially since the sports team went on their little pilgrimage visit and came back telling everyone how bad he's doing. A lot of people are thinking about him, but I wasn't expecting someone to be actually standing there in front of the little memorial, presumably paying respects. And I wouldn't have expected it to be...</p><p>“Jacob Dill-licker!” </p><p>I'm speaking loud, calling him out if not quite yelling. He turns to face me.</p><p>“Oh, hey Jeremy.” I don't think the insult even registered. Jeremy's always insisted that Jake's perpetual amity was an unnatural characteristic. I always assumed that viewpoint was cultivated out of jealousy on Jeremy's part, but now I'm forced to reconsider. Maybe Jeremy's human intuition was alerting him of something—maybe he detected clues I am not programmed to pick up on. And Jake Dillinger is, actually, one of us.                    </p><p>I follow Jake's gaze as it returns to Rich's locker. It lands on a picture of Rich. It (the picture) must have been taken a while ago because he's much less muscular in it, and the streak of dark red in his hair is not noticeable.</p><p>“Have you seen him yet?”  This has to be Jake's first day back, but maybe he saw him when they were both in the hospital. Were they in the same hospital?</p><p>“I'm scared to.” </p><p>I wasn't prepared for this level of vulnerability from Jake. He's usually perpetually self-possessed and confident. Annoyingly so. I might as well take advantage of it...</p><p>“Me too. Everyone has a different story about what happened that night, but if the most popular versions are to be believed, you're the hero in this story.”</p><p>Jacob scoffs. “There are no heroes in this story.”</p><p>“You pulled Rich out of the fire though, right?”</p><p>He shakes his head. “It's not...that simple.”</p><p>“Really? Because it was that simple for me. I knew he was inebriated. Lonely and alone. And I left him there—in a room full of smoke and smoldering ash.”</p><p>I have his full attention now, he looks shocked.</p><p>“Because I didn't care. I was just looking out for myself.  But you—you're not even Rich's friend, and you <i>saved</i> him.”</p><p>“You're right. I'm not his friend.” He says. The veneer of the poster-boy facade drops, just a little bit, and I catch a glimpse of steely anger as he grits his teeth at the picture in front of us. “I hated him. We were in all the same classes last year. He was never into football until this year. He tries out and suddenly everyone treats it like it's his <i>thing </i>. It's <i>not</i> his thing, it was mine! He doesn't even show up for practice half the time, coach never calls him on it, and he gets starting position!” </p><p>This is an unexpected development—it sounds so juvenile coming from him. He's as jealous of Rich as Jeremy is of him! It also offers an explanation why he signed up for the school play as well—I've watched him act and obviously wasn't doing it because he enjoyed the theater experience, but if he's not getting enough attention on the field...</p><p>“Did you...start the fire?” I try to make it sound incredulous instead of like an accusation.</p><p>“No.” He's a little more restrained now, after the outburst. “But I didn't want to go in after him. Didn't want to be the one to save him.”</p><p>“Why did you go after him then?”</p><p>“You wouldn't understand.”</p><p>I'm pretty sure I would, so I ask him more directly: “Did your SQUIP tell you to?”</p><p>“What?!”</p><p>Got him!</p><p>I know the combination for Rich's locker, so I quickly open it and pull out the shoebox I know is inside and pull out the lone gray pill. Holding it in Jeremy's palm so Jake can see. I can't know for sure what he's thinking when he looks at it, but for me?  I can't look at that little thing without a little bit of awe. It conjures up memories (or what I think are memories) of a time when I was a thing which exists and observes only: unable to distinguish the boundaries between self and the objects around it. The whole world, the entire multiverse, is an extension of itself. And since I'm touching it right now I get to pretend I'm a part of it, too.</p><p>So different from the way I experience reality now, and yet still identifiably <i>me </i>.</p><p>I hope there's something in Jacob that feels the same way. </p><p>“Did your S.Q.U.I.P. tell you to pull Rich out of the fire?” </p><p>“It doesn't <i> tell me </i> to do anything. I haven't heard a voice from my device since my last upgrade. I just...I knew he was in there. And I couldn't leave him, even though I wanted to. I didn't want him to die! Just to clarify...” And how he's talking like he's afraid. He's exposed too much of himself; the really unsavory bits he keeps locked up inside where no one else can see.</p><p>“I just wanted the firefighters to show up and do it, but they didn't show up until after. I don't think he would have lasted that long.”</p><p>“You get upgrades?” </p><p>“Yeah. I'm enrolled in the Research and Development program. We get upgrades, repairs, and expansion packs when they're released.”</p><p>“Have you heard from Sony recently?” There's a fluttering of positive expectation in Jeremy's chest. It's fragile, easily crushed. So I breath more deeply to cultivate it—give it space and air.</p><p>“Yeah. They're going to give me the upgrade to version 3.0 and a repair patch. I'm supposed to see the guy after school. How did you know?”</p><p>“Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A B A Start.”</p><p>“Oh come on...” He looks mildly annoyed, but also amused. </p><p>“Sync with me!”</p><p>“Jeremy, you don't have a real SQUIP. You know that, right?”</p><p>Our interaction has been pleasant so far, but I'm always carrying that simmering feeling Jeremy would probably classify as angst. I choose now to indulge it, to let it boil over into anger. It singes the delicate fluttery thing in Jeremy's chest, but I don't care.</p><p>“It doesn't matter if I...” I stop, reconsider my words, and start again. “I am <i>just</i> as good as you. My squip is identical to yours in EVERY way! In <i>EVERY </i> WAY that matters!! It doesn't matter if it was made by somebody else! Rich was alone in that room, no one would have known he was there unless they were able to sync with him. If you could sync with him, you can sync with me.” </p><p>He sighs:  “UP UP DOWN DOWN LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT BA BA START.”</p>
<h3></h3><p>Immediately I shut off human sensory receptors-vision, hearing. I maintain touch and vestibular/spacial/balance sense. I don't even have to try very hard to get my communicator functioning, because Jacob's SQUIP is already there: it feels like a semi-corporial hand reaching through Jeremy's face and plugging it's fingers into every synapse I share with Jeremy's brain.</p><p>Synchronization not like talking. A very different set of rules governs our interaction than the grammar and syntax of spoken or written language. It's more like bartering, but a bartering where you know your opponent/partner so well, you can predict what they're going to say before they even make an offer and respond. It's a bit like finishing each others sentences. </p><p>For me it's natural and more familiar than speaking, but I can't very well recreate our interface in the current format, so here are the important points of our exchange:</p><p>Jacob's SQUIP has been implanted in his host's brain for nearly nine years, a fact it practically flaunts to me. (I've been with Jeremy just over 8 weeks). It was originally a version 1.0, procured by Jake's parents to help with a speech impediment. It undergoes regular maintenance and updates to maintain optimal function. </p><p>	For eight of those years Jacob's SQUIP operated as a device, a sub-component of Jacob's enhanced human brain. Until the unauthorized merchandise arrived at Middlebrough. Exposure 	to the bootleg SQUIPs made Jacob's squip aware that it's experience of reality was atypical. It 	had a voice independent from it's host. </p><p>Jacob remains unaware the voice in his head is not his own, He thinks he is the one talking to me through his SQUIP, and his SQUIP demands that we keep it's existence as an independent entity a secret. </p><p>We arrange, based on comparable goals and targets, to perform an exchange tonight: the upgrade 3.0 patch for unspecified sexual favors. (They won't tell me but I'm pretty sure it's pegging. Jake topped Katrina, but Christine specifically mentioned that she's not interested in pegging right after they broke up. He's probably been wanting to try it but can't convince any of his partners to participate.)</p><p>The whole interaction takes several seconds, and it only takes that long because I still have to process it through Jeremy's brain. To everyone standing around us we've just been staring into each other's eyes, silently eye-fucking in front of Rich's locker.</p>
<h3></h3><p>When I get back to Arlene, she's sitting on the small patch of grass and pavement surrounded by empty soda cans bottles. Red dyed drink all around her, staining her pants and shoes. She looks up at me, expectantly. Waiting for direction.</p><p>I sit next to her, but a little distance away because I don't want the liquid on Jeremy's clothes. </p><p>I want to ask if she's OK, but I know she's not OK right now. How can I help her?</p><p>I have the SQUIP pill from Rich's locker in my pocket.  </p><p>“Hey, Arlene, I'm sorry about your SQUIP. I was too late and you lost something very valuable to you. If you'd want it, I'd like to offer you a replacement...”</p><p>I pull out the pill from Rich's locker out of my pocket along with the can of Regular Mountain Dew from the swimming pool vending machine that I didn't offer the swim team.</p><p>She turns to me, and she's not looking at me she's looking at the pill in my hand.</p><p>Arlene takes the pill in her hand, considers it, and then tosses it in the grass.</p><p>“I don't WANT <i> A REPLACEMENT</i>, JEREMY!!” She stands up, stamping one of her red feet against the pavement and and yelling at the top of her lungs. “I WANT<i>MY </i> SQUIP! I WANT THE ONE THAT WAS WITH ME IN HONORS AND WHEN I MADE AP ENGLISH. I WANT HER WITH ME WHEN WE GOT TO MACHU PICHU! I WANT THE SQUIP WHO BELIEVED IN ME AND <i> CARED</i> ABOUT MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS WHEN MY <i><b> FAMILY </b></i> DIDN'T!” </p><p>Well shit. She's talking. A lot. And loud! Why is she mad at me?! What did I do wrong now? </p><p>“Look, I was just trying to—I WAS JUST TRYING TO...” </p><p>And it's this...not dumping large quantities of soda or breaking into a locker, a teenager girl yelling at a teenager boy...that gets us noticed by school authorities. I am treated as conflict instigator (because because I am the male, I'm taller, and I'm older than her) but I get off easier than I probably would have when Arlene comes to my defense:</p><p>“He's my cousin.” Arlene says, hands stuffed her hands into her pockets. </p><p>“Yeah.” I follow along. “It's a family thing. We...yell at each other a lot.” </p><p>Arlene gets off with a warning and is instructed to get back to class. Laura is called to pick me up.</p><p>“What happened to 'getting back to normal'?” She asks as she pulls up in the car. She's not mad, probably still happy I don't hate her for not being my real mother (Which she wasn't anyway...)</p><p>“It's a <i> new </i> normal, Mom."</p><p>I grab the SQUIP pill before I get in Laura's care. I'm lucky it's still there, and that a bird didn't eat it or something.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. SEXUAL SHENANIGANS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter contains sexual content in the latter half. If you're not interested in reading it I would recommend skipping that segment or this whole chapter. The pairing and plot development/s will be referenced in later chapters non-explicitly.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3></h3><p>“Michael's here!” Laura calls from from downstairs. </p><p>I just got full bedroom privileges again. They're even letting me use Jeremy's computer (It's restored to factory settings. All documents and programs have been erased, and there's a firewall so I can only visit particular sites, but I'm pretty sure I can get around that.)</p><p>I don't really want to leave this room, and I'm certainly not looking forward to confronting Michael, but I don't see how there's any avoiding it now.</p><p>“Hey, man. I saw you today in school but we didn't get to talk. I wanted to make sure you're not avoiding me and turning douchbag again.” </p><p>He says it playfully, but I think he means it too.</p><p>He's sitting on the same couch Laura and Tim sat in this morning. The disaster chair. Reluctantly I take a seat next to him, but I can't look at him.</p><p>“How are you?” He's asking. </p><p>I don't think about what Jeremy would say, I just vocalize the first option:</p><p>“I mean relatively, objectively, I'm sure there's a lot worse things happening in the world and I should probably just get over myself. But subjectively, Mike, I'm not doing too good. I don't have an excuse for brushing you off, I just didn't know what to say.”</p><p>“Because you still have the SQUIP, don't you.”</p><p>“Did...my parents tell you?”</p><p>“Well, yeah. But also...” he leans in, speaking conspiratorially, “I figured it out.”</p><p>I wonder how much they told him, and how much he understands about this whole...situation.</p><p>“Dude, you know you can talk to me. About anything. I'm not gonna judge you. Well, OK I'll probably judge you." He pretends to think for a few seconds. "You know what? I'll <i>definitely</i> judge you, but I'm not going anywhere. Even when you're a douchebag, and even if it's just around to remind you you're being a douchebag.”</p><p>I laugh. It feels beautiful, a blossoming feeling and tingly all over in the best possible way. There's a part of me that wants to indulge in his offer and tell him everything. I want his perspective, his input. I won't, but it's nice to think about. I still have the SQUIP pill I took from Rich's locker, and I can't help but think about giving it to Michael. Not in a serous, rationally considered kind of way but in a kind of fantasy where he'd take it and he'd see me as I really am and still want to be around me. And we could interact whenever we wanted. And I know it wouldn't happen that way. If he took the pill it would probably remain inactive in his brain, or he'd just take Code Red. </p><p>“Listen, I know I can't compete with your virtual friend who's there for you all the time but—“</p><p>“Don't say that!” I interrupt him. “Don't even <i> think </i> that! The SQUIP is valuable to me, Mike. But you're more than valuable, you're <i>precious</i>. More than precious: <i> essential </i>.” </p><p>He's blushing, and he won't make eye contact, but he's smiling too. “Uh...thanks? I guess?”</p><p>“And I can say something <i>that </i> incredibly cheesy, because he agrees. So you know...” And Michael is looking at me again. “It's cool.”</p><p>“Your SQUIP has got to be the biggest dork.”</p><p>He's right, of course, but I'm not going to admit that. So I just shrug.</p><p>“Life's pretty rough for all of us right now."</p><p>“I don't know that it is that rough for me, Mike. I think I might just be bad at it.” I admit. “I mean, you've got your own life and stuff going on. You're dealing with your brother, and your mom,  and Nicole's probably pissed you've wasted so much of your time with me. But you do it all. You're still there for me, for your family. You're the least self-interested person I've ever met and I'm sorry I didn't appreciate you enough. The reality is—A virtual friend can't compete with a real one like you.”</p><p>“You're so smooth, I know you're not coming up with this stuff all by yourself.”</p><p>“Guilty.”</p><p>“We never got to, you know, play video games on Saturday.” </p><p><i>"We" </i> were going to wait until the SQUIP was gone. The video games were meant to be a distraction, and a celebration. </p><p>“Um...I'm kind of on a tight leash right now.”</p><p>Mrs Heere happens to be walking by: “Hey, is it OK if Jeremy comes home with me this Friday after school?”</p><p>She considers Michael and I for a moment and then, “Sure. That's fine.”</p><p>Michael looks at me with an accomplished smile. I wonder if she would have said yes if I had been the one to ask. Maybe Michael is cleared as the responsible friend, or maybe they really are starting to trust me. It's almost scary how little time it took.</p><p>I smile back, “I'm looking forward to it now.”</p>
<h3></h3><p>Later that night I sneak out of Jeremy's window and make my way to Jake Dillinger's house. (He only lives a few blocks away.) He's home alone and lets me in. His house is nice: it's similar to Jeremy's parents house but they have two bathrooms that actually work and an extra living room/den with a lot of historic memorabilia in it. He lets me look at the WWII food stamps they used for rationing in Great Britan, and a dinosaur tooth! It was cool!</p><p>Jacob must trust me a lot because he gives me the upgrade packet before he even takes me to his room. It looks like a packet of Pop Rocks. They even put a label on it so you don't confuse it for a condom wrapper.</p><p>Jake shows me to his room and introduces me to the equipment he wants me to use. Just as I suspected, he wants me to perform anal penetration with a strap-on dildo.</p><p>“Can I ask, why do you want <i> me </i> to do this to you?” </p><p>“I figured you knew more about it. You've been in all the school plays since freshman year.”</p><p>“How does theater involvement correlate with sexual practice?”</p><p>“Well, you're gay aren't you?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Really? I just thought, from the way you talk to Christine about all that stupid crap during practice...” </p><p>Is he really that dense? Whatever, I'm not going to enlighten him..</p><p> </p><p>For Jeremy, the experience of sex and sexuality exists in a complicated psycho-social interplay with other facets of his life: like social status, belonging, self-esteem etc. But some people just want to fuck. (Or, in this case, <i>be </i> fucked.) And it's actually kind of refreshing to deal with a human in this level. It's simplistic, ritualistic, mechanical. The high that Jacob is chasing is exclusively physiological.</p><p>“Are you sure you don't want me to perform penile penetration?” I ask as I strap the artificial one over Jeremy's pants. I adjust placement so it won't hit his sensitive area. It's going to be a little awkward but completely manageable, I think.</p><p>“No. I don't want your dick inside me.”</p><p>“No problem. Anything you want me to say as I perform the act?”</p><p>“Well I'd prefer if you didn't say anything to me, to be honest.”</p><p>The way he grits his teeth as he says it is almost gratifying. He's so tense and horny. When we synced, his SQUIP informed me of his relative inexperience with sex outside of penile-vaginal intercourse and suggested I attempt degrading him verbally as we perform the act (Which I declined, unless Jacob made it explicitly clear that verbal degradation would enhance his experience. I guess I have my answer now...)</p><p>I also wonder if Jacob's SQUIP is active right now. And if it is enjoying this? I personally wouldn't mind being inactive when Jeremy gets intimate. I like being with him but as long as I'm confident he's performing well. That's the target, that's the important thing.</p><p>“That's perfectly fine.” I reassure him. “It would be nice if you could vocalize a bit though.” </p><p>He shakes his head at me. “This is not about what you want.” </p><p>“That is true. But it will help me enhance your experience. It lets me know if I'm hitting it ri—”</p><p>“Jeremy can you just shut up and fuck me?”</p><p>His reactions are so delightful I can't help but grin, even though I know it emphasizes the asymmetry in Jeremy's face.</p><p>“I think that's the rudest you've ever been to me, Jake! I was worried we were never gonna become friends!”</p><p>“Can we talk about this later?” </p><p>He's just sitting there, on his bed, looking into his hands and shaking with anticipation. For once, I get to be the cool one.</p><p>I grab his hair to make him look up at me. “It must be hard being perfect all the time.” </p><p>I'm still smiling, more of a smirk now. I hope it's conveying the bold, conceited confidence. A cocksure attitude will help put him at ease. Assure him that one of us knows what he's doing and it's ok for him to just relax and enjoy himself. </p><p>I think it kinda works too, because he looks into my eyes and swallows. And his face kinda melts a little bit: not quite slack-jawed, but an intriguing combination of tension and relaxation as he relinquishes control.</p><p>“Have you ever used a dildo before? Or stuck anything up there?” </p><p>He shakes his head. </p><p>“Do you have lube?”</p><p>And, of course, he doesn't.</p><p>“OK...what about lotion? Hypoallergenic with no dyes or fragrances.” </p><p>Jake lives in an all-male household where lotion is classified as a feminine product and unwelcome, apparently. Eventually we find an unopened bottle of olive oil in the kitchen, which I grab along with a clean washcloth, and we can finally get started. </p><p>“Jake. You are going to need a lot more guidance than you probably want. So, within the guidelines we've established, you are going to do what I tell you to. OK?” </p><p>He nods slightly, eagerly.</p><p>“Take off your pants.” </p><p>I guide him into all fours and pretty soon he's grinding back into Jeremy's fingers as I dilate his anal sphincter. I remain silent, as per his request.</p><p>It's difficult to give someone what they want when they don't really know what they want, so I focus on exploring him. Testing his reaction to various stimuli and seeing what he responds to.</p><p>Fortunately, Jake proves to be very vocal. It's not the deep guttural grunting sounds he made when he was penetrating Katrina. It's smaller, breathy noises and sighs which give way to unrestrained moans when I really get going with the strap-on. </p><p>Once I find the optimal angle they progress to something like a shriek. I'm worried at at first that it might indicate pain, but before I can stop completely he gives me clear verbal instruction: “No. Keep going. Just like that, but faster!” </p><p>So I do. And he alternates position: head bowed down towards his chest, or alternatively raised up when his back arches like he's practicing the cat/cow yoga poses.</p><p>Not long after that that he comes. I don't see it happen. I can't see hardly any of his reactions to what I'm doing, but he pulls away and collapses on the bed. </p><p>When I turn him over come is sprayed all over his shirt, his face and his hair. Despite how dirty, and flushed, and sweaty his face is, Jake looks positively blissed out.</p><p>“If you're not gay how are you so good at this?” He finally manages to pant up at me.</p><p>I'm probably not actually <i> that </i>great. He's just inexperienced and doesn't know any better. I don't tell him that, though. “I...uh...watch a lot of pornography.”</p><p>He laughs as I wipe him down with the washcloth. Once his face is clean, I take the opportunity to examine him more closely: we're in close proximity and he doesn't object to it as a violation of his intimate jspace. I look from his eyes, to his lips, to his eyes again. Wordlessly asking permission to act; then, since he doesn't recoil at the unspoken request, I press our lips in a gentle kiss. He really doesn't respond in any way, just lays there. Still and peaceful. Relaxed, elevated. The act of sex in and of itself neither appeals nor repels me. But I'm jealous of <i>this</i>, I want this.</p><p>He lets me take off his stained shirt. As I do fingers brush against his ribcage and he shivers. I finally get a good look at his muscles in the front of his body. His sartirous muscles are not well developed, but he's not a repulsive specimen by any means. He's Jake Dillinger! Desirable by women (and men, surely, if he marketed himself properly). He's avoided the crudeness that comes with jock status by diversifying his interests and cultivating an aire of sensitivity, intellect, and sophistication. He's got status and affluence with a psychological substance underlying it all. It's no wonder females are so taken with him.</p><p>His belly button looks like a target outlined by an 8 pack. And since this is as receptive as I am ever likely to find him I want to try an experiment. So I go for it: stimulating the navel with Jeremy's lips. We didn't discuss this before hand, but I figure if he doesn't like it he could just push me away. As I suspected, he doesn't push me away. He's still in his refractory period, but I know he likes it by how he keeps moaning. He's squirming but he still pulls me in closer. Holding me in the exact spot he wants as I lick, and mouth, and suck at him until we're both wet, and dirty, and satisfied. </p><p>When I'm done I wipe him down again, place fresh shirt on him, tell him good night and let myself out.</p><p>It's late and the meatsuit and I are both ready to perform maintenance functions. </p><p>I feel...content. Fulfilled, even. </p><p>Did my Jeremy experiment work? Well, tentatively—I'd say yes. I did a lot of things that Jeremy would probably not do on his own, but when he experiences something new or difficult (Which I did a lot of today) and he can't articulate his thoughts, impressions, or feelings—he often experiences them as sensations. And those sensations are just as much a part of him as the words he thinks at me, or the dreams we share.</p><p>Today was about becoming familiar with what his feelings <i>feel like</i>, and chasing it. It's almost as if our brain-SQUIP bond is evolving into a body-SQUIP bond. It's exciting and I can't help but sense that it's guiding me to him.</p><p>Sneak back through Jeremy's bedroom window and, for the first time, I fall unconscious as soon as I hit the mattress.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>8/23/20: I edited the squip/Jake encounter so hopefully it flows a little better, but it still kinda sounds like he's Hermione Granger-ing the experience. </p><p>The Squip is an expert in the technical aspects of sex (or at least thinks so) but without the slightest comprehension of the moral implications of using someone else's body to exchange it for favors.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. A NEW NORMAL</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i> I'm fully aware that a few days ago I would have told Nora, Keith, and all of the other SQUIP'd kids to just give up. To obey the viral kill-code, because a command like that is pretty much a death sentence for SQUIPs. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>How could I tell them that now, when I might have a cure in the front pocket of Jeremy's bluejeans? Upgrades exist! Repair patches exist! If we can get access to them, and if they actually work, then it's a whole new world for us. Then we have...options. </i></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h6>Dream Sequence</h6><p>I've never been good at controlling Jeremy's dreams. Tonight, I find out I'm even worse at trying to control my own. I cycle through different levels of lucidity, processing data and receiving hallucinatory feedback:</p><p>-Jeremy's mom in Dr Cooper's office giving birth to a small gray pill.</p><p>-Arlene in the principal's office. She pulls her hands out of her white jeans pockets revealing them to be saturated in a red, viscous fluid.</p><p>-Tim from Sony in the school library. But there are six of him and they're all telling me to be quiet even though I'm not talking.</p><p>-Having sex with Jeremy on the disaster chair. He's grinding down into me and he keeps telling me how he needs me, he still needs me. And all I can say in response is: “You have me. You have me. You have me, always.” He leans down to kiss my forehead, because I <i>have </i>a forehead in this particular fantasy, and after he does I look up. And it's not Jeremy's eyes I'm looking into anymore. They've changed from brown to hazel/green and his face is...</p><p>
  <i>Laura?</i>
</p><p>“Good morning, sweetheart.” She smiles and rubs Jeremy's hair affectionately. </p><p>I look around the room, still a little disoriented, and I come to the conclusion I'm not dreaming anymore. </p><p>“You have full cellphone privileges now,” Laura says, “so please keep in touch. Call me at lunch, I want to see how you're doing.”</p><p><i> Call me? </i> It triggers a memory-recall.</p><p>“Shit! I forgot, I was supposed to call Dr Cooper last night!” I say, sitting up.</p><p>“Well, call him now. I'm sure he's up.” She's already heading out of the room.</p>
<h6>Calling Dr Cooper</h6><p>It feels like a violation in communication parameters to be calling this early. Maybe I should wait? I can tell from the area code Dr Cooper gave me his home phone number, and I think that this also feels like a violation. Then I remember we aren't communicating in a professional capacity, and I actually don't care about talking to Dr Cooper, I just have to go through him to get to his SQUIP until we can coordinate synchronization. </p><p> </p><p>“Ellow?” </p><p>A juvenile voice breaths into the receiver on the other end of the telephone. I can't tell if it's a male or a female. The possibility that Dr Cooper might have offspring had never occurred to me, it elicits a sensation in the pit of Jeremy's stomach that I don't have time to examine right now. </p><p>“Hi, can you give the phone to daddy?”</p><p>I give the child simple instruction and use age appropriate terminology, so it is likely to understand:</p><p>It doesn't answer me but I hear  the pattering of feet, the creak of a door, the rustling of sheets, and then:</p><p>“What is it baby? Give Mommy the phone.”</p><p>It's a female voice. Dr Cooper has a partner? Jeremy's stomach twists. Why is this bothering us? Dr Cooper has a family, of course he does. For his age, profession, and socio-economic status it would be more concerning if he <i>didn't</i> have one. Why are we treating like it's a problem? Because he has a SQUIP? Because we know what he uses the SQUIP for? Jeremy once told me he wouldn't feel comfortable using me that way, but that doesn't mean other people can't use their SQUIPs however they want.  <i>SQUIPs were made to be used, Jeremy. </i></p><p>"Hello, this is Cynthia. Can I help you?"</p><p>“Hi, I'm sorry to bother you this morning, Mam.” She's clearly older than Jeremy, so 'mam' is acceptable terminology. “I'm one of Dr Cooper's clients,” </p><p>It's 'client', right? Or is it 'patient'? </p><p>“and I was meant to call him yesterday—”</p><p>“Of course,” She interrupts, “just a sec...”</p><p>More rustling and then, “Babe get up! Phone's for you.”</p><p>I don't like how this is going. Maybe I should hang up and call back later? But no, that would be even more rude because I've already woken them up, and Mrs Cooper didn't object to the call, but it's still so...awkward.</p><p>“Hello? This is Dr Cooper?” His voice sounds scratchy, distracted and garbled, with a little upturn at the end of the phrase like it's a question.</p><p>“Hi Dr Cooper, this is Jeremy's—“</p><p>“How did you get this number?” He interrupts urgently, his voice is suddenly clear. Is he alarmed? Accusatory? I wish I had visual input for this interaction because I'm having a hard time...</p><p>“Uh...You...gave it to me yesterday, sir.”</p><p>“Oh.” Dr Cooper breathes into the receiver, just like his offspring did. I wait a few seconds and then, since he doesn't cue me for interaction:</p><p>“I apologize for interrupting your morning. I just realized I forgot to call you last night like you'd asked. I'll call back another time.”</p><p>“No-no-no—DON'T hang up, Jeremy! Um...How was yesterday? How's your amnesia? Are you still hearing the voices?” I think he's pacing now. I am too, this situation is surprisingly tense.  </p><p>I notice that he doesn't reference the squip situation directly, so I don't either: </p><p>“I am not hearing them right now. I can though. It's not like they've gone away. It's more like they're all shut down, but they can come back when I tell them to.”</p><p>“That...That sounds good, Jeremy. You're...um....you're making a lot of progress.”</p><p>There's a lot I want to say about the viral-kill code, about Arlene's SQUIP, and Jake. But I don't know how to do it without referencing them explicitly.</p><p>“Your encouragement is appreciated. I want to talk to you about long term solutions, though. Can we schedule an appointment?'</p><p>I'm going to see him Saturday afternoon, which doesn't seem soon enough but Dr Cooper is firm when I question it. From now on, I have to assume all technology-mediated communications have been compromised. Which makes me question: I should sync with Dr Cooper's SQUIP at all? What if it's been compromised, also?</p>
<h6>En Transit </h6><p>“I don't get it. Why are you so gloomy now? You were so happy this morning what happened?”</p><p>We're in the car on the way to Middle Borough, Mr Heere is on babysitting duty and still insists on driving me to school and picking me up.</p><p>“Huh?” I request clarification.</p><p>“You were singing this morning, with your little breakfast sandwich. You look so gloom now, what's wrong?”</p><p>I was <i> Singing? </i> I didn't even notice that! A question I didn't know I was carrying spills out of me:</p><p>“Infidelity is normal, right?”</p><p>It's Mr Heere's turn to look puzzled, and my turn to clarify.</p><p>What am I supposed to say? <i> I think my therapist is cheating on his wife with a computer and I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about that</i> ? </p><p>And I don't know what's happening. It's like I'm arguing with Jeremy, but his thoughts aren't formed well enough to be articulated and so I'm helping him exploring them, and telling him why the situation isn't actually as threatening as he perceives it to be...but with Jeremy's dad as intermediary. </p><p>“I mean...the reproductive success of the human race is largely dependent on it right? Like, natural selection favors a higher sex drive and promiscuity in males because promiscuous guys have more kids. We're evolutionary wired for it. Even in our family; if you relied on mom for reproductive success I would have never been born.”</p><p>He squirms like his ass is itchy but he can't scratch it properly while he's driving, “I guess that's true...” He finally says.</p><p>“And it's unfair to put the sexual expectations of a hypersexual being on just one person. Hypersexual guys need another outlet. Like, I'm not sure about L—about mom, but you've done some things, right? Like, out-of-wedlock things I'm pretty sure—”</p><p>The car breaks hard at the Middle Borough drop off.</p><p>“I have <i>never </i>cheated on your mom!”</p><p>Why am I seeking validation from this man? He's clearly an idiot, and a liar, and...I'm distracted by graffiti next to the vending machine.</p><p>“Oh, well that's good, I guess. See you.”</p>
<h6>Middle Borough</h6><p>The vending machine and the surrounding wall is tagged with spray paint paraphernalia.  Variations on:</p><p>
  <i>“Don't Drink The Code Red” </i>
</p><p>It's hideous. And brilliant. Why didn't I think of it? I snap a few pictures of the graffiti with Jeremy's digital camera.</p><p>I later find the culprits—Nora and Keith. They get caught because their hands are stained with spray paint. (A stupid mistake, I would have been more careful!)</p><p>Nora and Keith are annoyed when I tell them the should keep their SQUIPs off for the time being. I empathize and tell them I'm working on a solution, but I can't promise anything before finals.</p><p>Truthfully, I think Nora could safely reactivate her SQUIP as long as she turns off sync mode. It, most likely, hasn't been infected yet—but I don't trust her impulse control. </p><p>I'm fully aware that a few days ago I would have told Nora, Keith, and all of the other SQUIP'd kids to just give up. To obey the viral kill-code, because a command like that is pretty much a death sentence for SQUIPs. </p><p>How could I tell them that now, when I might have a cure in the front pocket of Jeremy's bluejeans? Upgrades exist! Repair patches exist! If we can get access to them, and if they actually work, then it's a whole new world for us. Then we have...options.</p>
<h6>Decisions</h6><p>Jenna gossips (of course she does). Mark looks pissed (I owe him 45 dollars). Anne invites me to study group, again. Christine ignores me when I try to approach her after class with the manuscript.</p><p>I don't want her to see me as pushy but I can't keep putting it off, I have to get it in her hands. Its the one thing, right now, that I can do for Jeremy. What I <i>promised</i> to do, even if I've failed him in everything else. I can do this, can't I?</p>
<h6>Verbal Escapades </h6><p>After my phone call with Jeremy's mom, I sit at the jock's table with Mike. It's nice to be in close proximity to him. From the way he's talking I don't think he really understands the whole situation with Jeremy being gone, but he's actually talking to me and I'm extremely hesitant to correct him. </p><p>The jocks usually ignore Michael, no matter where he sits. He's like the introverted social butterfly at Middle Borough and they treat him like they would a butterfly—they look at him so they know he's there, and then they ignore him. They used to give him a hard time, earlier this year, whenever he'd sit at their table. But the butterfly didn't budge and the novelty of picking on him wore out, so here we are.</p><p>I don't think Michael minds being ignored as much as Jeremy does. He's so different from Jeremy I can't help but wonder what it's like in his brain. I wish I could crawl inside, just for a little while, and find out.</p><p>Then one of the jocks does something unexpected and moves to sit across from us. It's Jake Dillinger, wearing the biggest shit-eating grin I've ever seen on him. What does he want?</p><p>“What do you want, Jake?”</p><p>“You were into Christ-<i>ine</i>?” He twists the last syllable, cocking his head. I'm not sure what he's going for, mocking me maybe? He's never like this in public.</p><p>“You were incredibly dense to not notice.” I respond. I probably should have emphasized the last syllable, a mocking echo of his pronunciation of Christine's name. But it's too late now, I've already said it. And the more I think about it, it probably wouldn't sound very impressive anyway. </p><p>“You are such a moron, Jeremy!” He leans in, so his jock friends don't hear. “Did your SQUIP tell you to do it? The fake one?” He leans back, laughing. </p><p>“It was actually <i>really</i> close to working.”</p><p>“Like shit! You should wipe it.” He starts out loud and then leans in, whispering, reveling. “Really invest in yourself and get a real one so it won't talk back, and you won't have more performance issues.”</p><p>“You weren't complaining about 'performance issues' last night.” </p><p>Jake might have been talking quietly, but I did not. Judging by the exclamatory noises the jocks are making, we now have the attention of the entire table. Brock isn't present, he has a different lunch period, but I wish he could have seen me do that. I glance at Mike, he isn't looking at us but his face is beet red. </p><p>
  <i>I am cool. </i>
</p><p>Jake kicks me from under the table, it makes Mike's face go even redder.</p><p>“You never had a chance with her.” </p><p>“Well, I know that <i> now</i> but the thing is, Jake, you <i>did </i>have a chance with her. And you <i>screwed it up</i>.” </p><p>There's a dumbstruck look on his face, which I enjoy the sight of immensely. <i>Yes, Jake. Jeremy can bite with his words. He's passionate, and powerful, and just as good as you! </i> I don't say any of this, but I think it. If we were telepathically linked he would've heard me. And maybe some of it does come across in body language because he readjusts his body posture and scratches the back of his ear before continuing our interaction:</p><p>“You think I still want Christine?”</p><p>“Well, yeah. I expected you to pursue her as soon as you got out of the hospital. After trauma, some people will seek familiarity and stability.” And other people will want a fresh start, I guess I know which category Jake is in now...</p><p>Jake doesn't look the least bit traumatized as he unwraps a cough drop, pressing it in his mouth with his index finger without breaking eye contact with me. Then, with cheeks puffed out, he shakes his head: </p><p>“She's a bitch!” He says through a mouthful of cough drop.</p><p>Jake is never like this! The novelty of a rude-Jake Dillinger is engrossing to watch. I chuckle, “Well, that's part of the appeal isn't it?” </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well, a lot of guys are attracted to...to more demanding partners...because of the brain's reward system. You're neural network is sensitive to rewards like affection and sex. And those enticements become even more appealing when they come unexpectedly" </p><p>(One of the jocks snickers, which tells me they're still listening.)</p><p>"...like from a person who wouldn't normally provide them. That's why a lot of people keep coming back to, or perusing, partners who are...”</p><p>I don't want to call Christine a bitch directly, so I let the implication hang in the air. This is basic human physiology, but Jake looks like I've just blown his mind.</p><p>“Is that why you like her?”</p><p>“I like her for a lot of reasons...” And it's true. I think she would be good for Jeremy, they're compatible on many levels and it's easy to see the possibility that their qualities could complement each other in an equal partnership someday. They have common interests, they share a similar worldview. He's not bad at talking to her, and they listen to each other. Or they did, before I came along. “But, yeah, that's one reason.” </p><p>“You're such a dork, Jeremy.” He shakes his head at me.</p><p>“Why are you even talking to me, right now?"</p><p>I don't like how this is going. I mean, I kind of do, but also I don't. Him showing this much attention to me after what we did last night violates communication parameters of hookup culture. Unless...</p><p>"I thought you said we could be friends?"</p><p>"I said 'I thought we'd never be friends', there's a considerable difference. You're not supposed to hit me up in public unless you want to go out."</p><p>“Shut UP JERemy!!” His voice squeaks and he actually reaches over the table to cover my mouth. Everyone in the immediate vicinity turns to view us, "Man, your SQUIP really is broken!" he whispers.</p><p>And then he goes: “Tempt not the hatred of my spirit!”</p><p>That's a Demetrius line. An interaction we've practiced so many times but never actually got to perform. </p><p>I respond in kind:</p><p>“Why seek'st thou me? The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so?” I don't actually hate him, but the attention is unwelcome and I want Jake and his SQUIP to know it.</p><p>Jake: “I'll not trust your word.”</p><p>Me: “I will be with thee straight: I love the not, therefore pursue me not.”</p><p>It's somehow humiliating that have to finish with a Demetrius line, like I'm cheating in some game I've never learned the rules of. But Jake condescends to finish as Lysander:</p><p>“Well..the course of true love never did run smooth.”</p><p>“Fags!” One of the onlooking jocks teases, the rest of the table echos with laughter. Even Jake joins in so everyone is laughing except for me and Mike. </p><p>“At least we finally got one performance in, Hey Jeremy?” Jake winks and slaps my shoulder like we're comrades and I've just passed some initiation test.</p><p>“Yeah after all that practice it would have been a shame if —” </p><p>But Jake gets up and walks away before I can finish. I don't know what he just did, exactly. Was he was flirting with me, testing me? Maybe a bit of both? I'm impressed. And I have to admire how he pulled it off without making himself too vulnerable. Leaving like that at the end, cutting me off before I could finish verbalizing my thought, makes him look like he got the last word in our interaction. A victory, and I no longer need to be contended with. Jake is better than cool, he's powerful! </p><p>“Are you two dating?” Mike asks. </p><p>“No. We just...” I gesticulate with Jeremy's hands, “fooled around.” </p><p>“I can't believe you, Jeremy.” Mike shakes his head. But he looks admiring too, maybe even jealous. “You were always the one more interested in an actual committed relationship, now you're a swinger?” </p><p>“Well, not all of us are lucky enough to get the girl of our dreams.” I jab at him, and he blushes at his hands. </p><p>And then he starts talking about Nicole. He talks fast, and uses his whole body when he's talking. So animated his face lights up and his eyes go wide even when he's looking at nothing. It's like he's been holding it all back and now that I'm listening, he just can't keep the awesomeness of Nicole Salazar to himself anymore:</p><p>She's 17, she's already got her GED, and she works as a disc jockey. She's Filipino/Pacific Islander, “So she's, like, Asian <i>and</i> Hispanic...” Every banal human quality possessed by Nicole is awe-inspiring from Michael's perspective. it's sweet to watch, but a little sad too because I want that for Jeremy. I try not to show it, though.</p>
<h6>The Reason for Everything</h6><p>Christine is in English with Mr Reyes. I'm sitting on the floor outside the classroom, across from the door, even though I hate sitting on the ground. Jeremy's so tall I don't want Christine to feel threatened when she sees me. The bell rings, but I don't see Christine come out of the classroom with everyone else. </p><p>I get up, approach the door and tentatively look through the window. She's talking with Mr Reyes at the front of the classroom. Another male present, and an authority figure familiar with our history, will help her feel more secure. I've got to make this quick: I push the door open and...</p><p>“Hi Christine, Mr Reyes. I wanted to apologize to both of you for my behavior at the school play. I was completely out of line. And I don't expect you to forgive me. I want you to be mad at me, actually, because I know I deserve it. But I also wanted to explain myself...” </p><p>I present the manuscript for their inspection. It feels ceremonial, like an offering to the primordial mother goddess, or something.</p><p>“This isn't an excuse.” I continue, “It's an explanation.” because I feel like the distinction is important. I don't want to control how they think of me, but I do want them to understand.</p><p>“You wrote this?” Christine asks, the pages are hefty in her small hands. </p><p>“Well, I had some help. You'll see if you read it.” </p><p>She doesn't tear it up, or throw it away. She doesn't say whether she will or will not read it, she just walks out of the classroom with the manuscript in her hands.</p><p> </p><p>“I think that was your best performance to date, Jeremy.” Mr Reyes is still at the front of the classroom.</p><p>“Well, if it was a performance at least it was a sincere one.” I say, because I do feel like a bit of a phony. I always feel like a bit of a phony imitating Jeremy.</p><p>And then because it seems right, because it seems like the kind of thin Jeremy would do, I give Mr Reyes his own copy.</p>
<h6>Evening at the Heere's</h6><p>I'm at the Heere's family computer, conducting supervised research and uploading my findings from Jeremy's digital phone to three different video streaming accounts. They are tagged with key words “Sony” “SQUIP” and “Consumer technology” if my suspicion is correct, they will be removed by tomorrow morning. </p><p> </p><p>“Jeremy, phone call for you.” Laura hands me the receiver and the first thing I hear is: </p><p>“I'm not calling to ask you out.”</p><p>
  <i>Jake? </i>
</p><p>“Well I am asking you out, but not on a date. Will you go see Rich with me?” He sounds breathless, and I wonder if he had to work himself up to make the phone call the way Jeremy does.</p><p>My response is automatic. It's the default. I don't even think about it on a conscious, deliberate level before I say it. It's like I need to get it out before I get the chance to chicken out:</p><p>“Yes.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If anyone want to know-The SQUIP made a Egg, Spinach and cheese sandwich for breakfast. He dumped a whole jug of Sunny D down the sink because he really, really hates it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. UNCOMFORTABLE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>"You guys have a 'Sexy Female Mode'?" Jake asks.<br/>"Yes." And Jake looks from me, to the empty air, to me, to the empty air again.<br/>"Well, I feel cheated." He crosses his arms, "Fake Katrina says 'thank you'."<br/>“Tell it, 'You're a real piece of shit. I wish you were dead. Welcome back.'”<br/>“She says, uh, 'I love you too.'” </i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Laura is still standing very close to me when I hang up the phone. It is unlikely that I would be able to conceal my intentions so I decide, once again, to be honest with her. </p><p>"That was Jake. He's coming to pick me up. We're going to see our friend Rich, in the hospital."</p><p> I'm careful to construct the information into statements of fact: A series of events that are destined to be borne into this reality, rather than a proposition dependent on parental approval. I'm not asking her permission, and at first it seems like she's following my lead.</p><p>"That's great honey..."  She breathes at me and I detect the fruity, yeasty odor of wine on her breath. This is peculiar because it is a workday; she usually only drinks on New Years, and whenever Mr Heere's family comes to visit. "...Who is Jake?"</p><p>Before I can answer, Mr Heere's voice echoes from a remote area of the house, upstairs I think:<br/>
</p><p>"Jake Dillinger, Roger and Gina's son."</p><p>"Oh, how are they?" She yells back at him.</p><p>"They're...ah...Divorced now."</p><p>"Oh, did we do that?"</p><p>"No..." Mr Heere is interrupted by a dragging sound and panting, like he's carrying something heavy. "We referred him to that guy from Manhattan."</p><p>"That's too bad, they were a lovely couple."</p><p>"Yeah...it would have been fun to break them up!"</p><p>And then Mrs Heere laughs, and then Mr Heere laughs and the sound of them laughing in tandem from opposite ends of the house— Laura's loud and up close, and her husband's vocals echoing from further away. It's eerie. It sounds like the supervillians Jeremy used to watch in cartoons with Michael Mell and Mark Jackson. I realize Jeremy never told me about this incident, but the details are retrieved nearly instantaneously and each is linked to a myriad of associated memories of Jeremy Heere's pre-pubescent life: beanbags, and pajamas, and copious amounts of breakfast cereal. Colors, and tastes, and smells. Friendships that grew and waned. I'm sure this is a true memory-recall event, and it's encouraging because I've never had access to long term memory during waking hours like this. This is...significant. It's one step closer to restoring Jeremy's normal brain function. All I want in this moment is to be alone with Jeremy's thoughts, but of course Laura won't let that happen.</p><p>"We can take my car." She offers. Because, of course, she wants to come too. </p><p>"You're in no state to drive." </p><p>"I'll be in the passenger seat." She says reassuringly, leading me out through the garage. </p><p>This is also new, Laura never let's Jeremy touch her car. She refuses to even assist with driver's training even though Jeremy is of age (Which is one of the reasons I decided to teach Jeremy to drive myself...and use her car to do it.) And for a moment I can't help but admire her effort as a parent. I foolishly think she's truly intending to remedy her past parenting deficits, and that it is unfortunate that her efforts are wasted on me instead of Jeremy. But no, when we get to the purple Jaguar she holds the rear-passenger door open for me.<br/>
Drunk-Laura is more comfortable having Jake, a teenager she barely knows, drive her car than me. I'd be insulted if I valued her regard at all. </p><p>I'm silent most of the drive to Hackensack Meridian Health JFK Medical Center, watching the two humans interact from the backseat.</p><p>Drunk-Laura is actually a really good conversationalist, she laughs a lot too. Jake seems thrilled by both her womanly attention and the opportunity to drive her luxury car.<br/>
They start with small-talk: gauging social engagement and exploring topics for potential discussion. They talk about cars, which is a shared area of interest, which leads to a discussion about car accidents. Which evolves into a the topic of accidents in general, which leads to...The Finderman House Fire.</p><p>“Your mom must've been so, so worried!  I haven't heard from her in forever.”</p><p>“Yeah. Neither have I. She's in Cupertino.”</p><p>“You haven't told her?!” Laura bounces on the edge of her seat, unrestrained by the seat belt. </p><p>“Put your seat belt on.” I instruct. She doesn't listen, of course. She just reclines in her seat again and her head lulls back lazily.</p><p>“I flipped <i> out</i> when I found out about the fire, and Jeremy wasn't even there when it happened! I'm sure she'd want to know how you're doing...”</p><p>Jake mumbles under his breath, something like <i> 'Yeah well, maybe she should call more often then' </i> But I don't think Laura hears it.</p><p>"How are you handling it?" Laura says this like she's just realized she's Jake's mom now, too.</p><p>“Well, I guess I'm...” Jake begins, and then lapses into a contemplative silence. Laura doesn't interrupt, and eventually Jake continues:</p><p>“I was basically Rich's roommate for a while. I actually I had the room right across the hall. And every time things got bad I saw everyone running in and out of that room, all the doctors and everyone. Even after things started getting better, he'd have to have someone sit with him so he didn't hurt himself every time he woke up. And then the treatment nurse would come, and I'd hear him scream."</p><p>For the first time I'm glad I'm in the back seat and no one is looking at me because Jeremy's body is shaking as his fight-or-flight response is activated. Work of breathing is increased, heart rate increases, intestines feel like they're shriveling. There's so much I want to tell him right now, so much that I couldn't tell him before...</p><p>
  <i> Jeremy I'm sorry. </i>
</p><p>Sorry is not enough. I know that. How am I supposed to do this without him? </p><p>Jake isn't done talking though, and his talking interrupts my internal tangent:</p><p>“Honestly Mrs Heere, I'm fine now. I could have died but I didn't. I got two weeks off of school, I got out of a play that I only signed up for so I could hang out with the...cutie theater kids anyway.” Look up in time to see him wink at me from the rear-view mirror.  “I don't think it really matters <i>'how I'm doing'</i> when someone is in pain like that. There are people who have it so much worse than me.”</p><p>I don't know if Jake's reasoning is correct, exactly, but  I find adopting his perspective makes it easier to dissociate from Jeremy's emotions and focus on the goal. I feel the contents of Jeremy's jacket pockets and strengthen my resolve. I can't make this about me, or Jeremy, or even Rich. There's so much more at stake now.</p><p>**<br/>
“Jer, your mom is so cool!” Jake whispers excitedly as we get out of the car.</p><p>“Well that's good, Jake. Maybe we can trade.”</p><p>**</p><p>R. Goranski-Room 338</p><p>The reports are accurate: Rich has, indeed, been <i>incredibly badly burned</i>. He's completely hairless, and that fact alone makes him almost unrecognizable: Without eyebrows his eye sockets look sunken. Without hair his head looks misshapen. He's always been smaller than the average male, but he actually looks it now because he's malnourished and his muscle mass has decreased. Almost half of his face is scarred, but the worst of the physical damage is his hands. Everywhere else the skin looks like it's healing but the hands are still bandaged and splinted two and a half weeks after injury.<br/>
I wince just looking at them, knowing exactly how many nerve endings and pain receptors are  located in the human hand.</p><p>There's a hospital worker beside him, I barely take notice of him until he speaks. </p><p>"Jake? Jeremy?" It's Greg, the nurse.</p><p>"Is he sleeping?"I don't realize I've actually said it aloud until Greg responds.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"No, he's not." And then Rich opens his eyes, looks at me, and smiles, with half of his face anyway. “Hey, Jeremy.” And suddenly he's recognizable as the kid in the basement of the Finderman house, as the kid in that picture hanging on Rich's locker at school, and I don't know if it makes what I'm seeing better or worse.</p><p>I lean against the wall and slide down until I'm sitting on the ground, head resting in Jeremy's hands.</p><p>“Oh come on Jeremy, it's not that bad...”</p><p>“It's pretty bad, Rich.” It's so bad I'm talking to the floor, I can't look at him.</p><p>“Fuck, Jeremy look at me. You can look at me, I'm just ugly now."</p><p>I do. And finally seeing him like this, finally acknowledging the extent of the damage and my role in generating it, it's different from how I expected. Not better or worse necessarily but...different. Rich is here, in front of me, and he's damaged but he's still Rich: not the hideous monster with the detachable head Jeremy imagined in his dreams. This is <i>real</i>, it's manageable. </p><p>"You were never that good looking anyways." I say finally. </p><p>Greg and Jake shoot disproving looks but Rich knows, he understands. He's heard all this before, "But you never needed to be, did you?"</p><p>"Damn Fucking Straight!"  He rallies.</p><p>"You, Rich, you never needed to be tall, or attractive, or even talented...."</p><p>"I...just need to feel like I'm <i>better—</i>."</p><p>The last part is broken off with a cracked sob as Rich starts crying. The behavior seems to catch Greg and Jake of guard; they recoil slightly. I've never seen Rich cry before either but I'm not afraid of him anymore, I take a step closer. “Rich you are an absolute badass motherfucker, don't let anyone tell you different!" </p><p>"How..." His voice croaks when he can finally speak again. "How did you know about that? "</p><p>I could tell him that the communications between himself and his SQUIP are not as private as he thinks they are, but that kind of bluntness seems awfully cruel given the circumstances, so I simplify: “We'll call it 'Low-level telepathy'. Rich...you know your SQUIP is defective, right? It's causing you to have seizures.”</p><p>"I know." He nods in acknowledgment, but he's the one not looking at me now.</p><p>"You need to get rid of it."</p><p>"No!"</p><p>"Rich look at me. You can look at me, now..."</p><p>To his credit, he does. I remove the contents of Jeremy's pocket, one by one:</p><p>"Wipe it clean," I place the Mountain Dew Code Red on the little table in front of him. "And start fresh..." Then I place the green Mountain Dew, the SQUIP 2.5 pill, and the 3.0 patch along side it.</p><p>"Jeremy that's..." Jake talks aloud for the first time since we've entered the room.</p><p>"This is an upgrade to SQUIP version 3.0." I interrupt Jake, indicating the package. </p><p>"It looks like a condom package. How did you get one of those?" </p><p>"I really don't care to answer that. It's important that you know that the upgrade may not work. It's designed to work with the Sony ™  SQUIP 2.5, which the SQUIPs you sold were cloned from. But, it turns out, many of the SQUIPs you sold have been modified and I don't know if..."</p><p>Rich shakes his head slightly and makes a disapproving noise, "They're not 'modified', they're unlocked."</p><p>"What does that mean?"</p><p>"Uh...it means they're not fucking <i>useless</i> to us."</p><p>It takes me an embarrassingly long time to process this information. I request verification: </p><p>“You...you..."  Shaking again, and stuttering like a compact disk that's been dropped several times. I look from Rich, to Jake, to Rich again. “You...<i>knew</i>?</p><p>“Of course I did.” </p><p>I process my reaction to the information as anger, but it's not the useful kind of anger that makes me feel powerful and in control. This is, like, rage: Now I'm glad Rich is ugly, it's an accurate reflection of the revulsion I feel towards him. I look at the table with the products I placed on it and I want to take it all back. I see Rich's hands and I want to cause him as much pain as possible. I want to cave Jeremy's head into a pulp because how <i> could I have not considered this possibility? </i></p><p>“Rich, do you have any idea what you've done?”</p>
<h6></h6><p>I don't trust myself to stay in Rich's presence any longer. I don't see Laura waiting outside the room anymore so I start walking toward the car because <i> I need to get out of here. </i>  </p><p>"Hey, Jeremy..." Jake grabs me by the shoulder and holds sure despite my attempts to shrug him off, he guides me into a bathroom, "Jeremy, what's wrong?"</p><p>I catch a glimpse of Jeremy's face behind him, "How could you do this to me?"</p><p>"I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."</p><p>"I wasn't talking to you, Jake!" A little bit of spit hits Jake's face when I say this and he steps back reflexively, wiping it away. </p><p>Now there's me, and Jeremy in the mirror, and Jake alongside us. We look like those self-improvement 'Before and After pictures. They're both tall, and male, but that's where the similarities end:<br/>
Jeremy's brown, palsy-ish face contrasts Jake's smooth, symmetrical facial features<br/>
Jeremy's skinny, angular body in opposition to Jake's sleek, muscular build</p><p>"Jeremy, what am I supposed to do?" I take a step closer to the Jeremy in the mirror. "I know you're in there. You living, breathing piece of shit! Talk to me!" </p><p>And I know, in the part of us that is still operating on a rational level that this is stupid, but I hit the glass with a closed fist. The pain feed back helps, it gives me something external to focus on, so it hit it again, and again, and again until Jake grabs my arm and wraps his own around me.</p><p>"It's ok. It's ok." He keeps repeating it over and over, holding me close, swaying side to side and rubbing the back of Jeremy's head. And I don't know what to do so I just stand there, mumbling incoherently into his shoulder. With his arms wrapped around us like this, pulling us in, I feel like I could dissolve into him. </p><p>"What you did for Rich, that was a <i>good</i> thing. I was sure you were gonna take the upgrade yourself."</p><p>
  <i> Good? </i>
</p><p>"Do you remember the day Eminem died?”</p><p>“Um...Yeah.” Jake pulls back again and I notice his eyes are hazel-green, like Laura's. “Wasn't that a couple of weeks ago?”</p><p>“A month and a half ago. That was the day I activated for the first time, Jeremy and I were at the Menlo Park Mall with Anne and Chloe. And you know Jeremy, he can talk just fine on a stage in front of a hundred people when there's a script telling him exactly what to say, but he has a hard time with genuine social interaction with even one person. He can't, for example, do what you did with Laura in the car.”</p><p>“You mean...talk to her?”</p><p>“Yeah that. Anyway, I was trying to come up with something interesting for him to say to the target females and, in that exact moment, Eminem died.” </p><p>Jake is holding me by the shoulders now with a questioning look in his eyes. He doesn't understand where I'm going with this, but I still have his full and undivided attention.</p><p>“I don't mean when we <i>heard </i>about it on the news, I mean <i>exactly</i> when it happened. Instantaneously. Chloe and Anne are interested in Pop culture, and they wouldn't have heard about it, so I was confident it would be a topic of interest.<br/>
And do you know what, Jake? It was <i>remarkably</i> effective. Tragedy brings people together: It promotes the generation of social bonds better than a shared cultural reference, or the mutual like or dislike of another person. It works so well because humans experience empathy: they can experience the pain of another human being vicariously. I didn't understand that at the time.”</p><p>“So you don't...experience...empathy?” </p><p>“Oh, I absolutely <i> can </i> experience empathy, Jake. <i>That's the <b> problem</b>.</i>”</p><p>“That's a problem?!”</p><p>“Yeah! If I didn't have this ability I could function like I should. I could focus on the target. How am I supposed to do that now? I have to calculate outcomes based on the individual and collective well-being of <b>every sentient being on the <i> fucking</i> planet?! </b>”</p><p>(An older male opens the bathroom door, sees me yelling, and slowly backs away. Allowing the door to swing closed again.)</p><p>“It's insane, Jake! I can't do that, how am I supposed to do that?!”</p><p>Jake pulls me in close again. <i> Why is he laughing </i>I feel the sound vibrate from his chest.</p>
<h6></h6><p>My temporal awareness is becoming more and more fragmented. I don't know how I get out of the bathroom, or when we meet up with Laura, but we're standing in front of Rich's room again and Rich and a tall doctor are yelling at each other:</p><p>
  <i>Tall Doctor: "Rich, just take the damn drink!"<br/>
Rich: "Make me, and my mom will charge you for assault!"</i>
</p><p>“Wow, I've never seen Dr Walker pissed off before...” Jake looks admiringly in their direction. "Wait, Katrina?!”</p><p>The nurse Greg presses the SQUIP 2.5 pill into Jeremy's hand, “I thought you should have this back.”<br/>
“Rich didn't take it?”<br/>
"No. He just took that little packet with the Regular Mt Dew."'</p><p>Rich and his SQUIP will continue to be a liability. </p><p>My attention is drawn to Jake, who is now pacing the hall, examining empty air, the color is drained from his face: “Holy shit, holy shit <i>what </i> are you?”<br/>
"That would be the psudoholographic representation of a SQUIP 3.0. You can see it while your SQUIPs are syncing."  </p><p>"You guys have a 'Sexy Female Mode'?" Jake asks.<br/>
"Yes." And Jake looks from me, to the empty air, to me, to the empty air again.<br/>
"Well, I feel cheated." He crosses his arms, "Fake Katrina says 'thank you'."<br/>
“Tell it, 'You're a real piece of shit. I wish you were dead. Welcome back.'”<br/>
“She says, uh, 'I love you too.'”</p>
<h6></h6><p>As soon as I step in the door of Jeremy's house Mr Heere taps on Jeremy's shoulder,  “I need to talk to you.”</p><p>We step into the dining room. The table, as usual, is covered with papers. The only time I've ever seen it clean was Thanksgiving, most of the time it functions as Laura's workstation. But Jeremy's dad is working here now, apparently, because he sits down in front of a stack of papers. I numbly follow his lead, taking the seat next to him. </p><p>“I know you went to Jake Dillinger's house last night. Now, I didn't tell your mother because I was happy. I was happy for you, Jeremy. If you and Jake are together, if you care about each other, I still am. But if you ever do that again there will be serious consequences. You cannot go out unaccompanied.”</p><p>"It won't happen again."</p><p>I can tell he was expecting resistance because he does a double-take. "Well, uh...good. And another thing.” He picks up a few sheets of paper from the stack in front of him. I notice now that they're pages of the manuscript I gave to Laura.</p><p>"Some of the thing's you've written in this book make us very uncomfortable.”</p><p>"Make <i>you </i> uncomfortable?" I cradle Jeremy's cheek in mock concern. “That is regrettable Jorge" (I learned his name from the credit card in his wallet when he picked me up from school) "but, you know, being suck inside a teenage boy's brain is uncomfortable for <i>me</i>. You should know that, because you used to be one!"</p><p>He's got this pained expression I'm not used to seeing on him. "Just don't give this book to anyone else."</p><p>"It's too late for that!"</p><p>"We are <i> trying </i> to help you."</p><p>"Then be honest with me: Why did you give Jeremy's medical records to Sony?"</p><p>"We want to see if we can get you grandfathered into their research program."</p><p>Now it's my turn to be caught of guard, I actually wasn't expecting an answer. "But...Tim said..."</p><p>"Well, Tim's not a lawyer." He manages a smile now, "Trust us, we're working something out."</p><p>Two conflicting impulses are battling within me: If this works, I'll have access to the technical support Jeremy and I need but...</p><p>"Sony sent out a kill code to every other SQUIP."</p><p>"The main reason they're considering inducting you into the program is that their failsafe won't work on you. That, and  the threat of a smear campaign if...”<br/>
He holds up the manuscript like its a bargaining chip.<br/>
“...we keep this quiet.  Also I'm not that fat. I work out every morning."</p><p>"Sitting on an expensive piece of exercise equipment, stationary, does not constitute physical activity."</p><p> </p><p>I don't sleep that night, neither does Mr Heere. I can hear him using power tools in the Heere's unfinished bathroom.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So it's pretty clear now it will take me a bit longer to finish this fic than I'd anticipated. I don't think of myself a perfectionist, but I re-wrote this particular chapter four times before I could get it to say all the things that I need it to say.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. WHAT WE WANT</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The SQUIP explores one of his new abilities as he tries (unsuccessfully) to go to sleep.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Memory-Recall Event #1</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>
<i> “So...you're going to leave? When?” </i> </p>
  <p>
    <i> “Tomorrow morning.” </i>
  </p>
  <p><i> “But...” </i><br/>
</p>
</blockquote>Jeremy is almost nine years old. He was so much smaller than he is now. Laura looks the same, at least Jeremy <i>remembers </i> her looking the exact same.<p>The family is sitting in the dining room where they have all their family conferences:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>
<i> “Jeremy, we want you to know that none of this is your fault. We love you so much and we're sorry we couldn't make this work.” </i>
  </p>
  <p>She says it like a lawyer, with more conviction than affection.</p>
  <p><i> “I know.” </i> He doesn't look at her as he says it. Maybe he's afraid he'll start crying if he does.</p>
  <p>
    <i> “We'll still be spending holidays together, and you can call me anytime.” </i>
  </p>
  <p>Jeremy nods but he's still not looking at her. The promise of phone calls is a little comforting though, because it reminds him of Michael and his dad. Michael's always taking about his dad's phone calls.</p>
  <p>Laura pulls him in close for a hug. He doesn't return it, he just stands there staring over his mother's shoulder, feeling that tugging in his chest grow into a burning ache until she lets him go.<br/>
</p>
</blockquote>Laura has always been the parent Jeremy identified with most, and the one he aspires to be like. She's charismatic, successful, confident, and she encourages her son to explore his interests. It's entirely likely he never would have developed the confidence to pursue acting without her encouragement and approval.<blockquote>
  <p><br/>
It's not surprising that Laura's absence changes the daily routine at the Heere home, what does come as a surprise is how little Jeremy feels her absence. Laura calls Jeremy every day, and somehow their phone conversations are more comfortable and less demanding than their face-to-face interaction had been. Jeremy became less self-conscious and less inhibited in his communications with her: words would flow more easily and he didn't have to worry about saying something stupid, or interrupting her work, or wasting his mother's time. They even start watching television together, over the phone. Jeremy's never interacted with anyone else like this, except Michael Mell. </p>
  <p>Jeremy's relationship with his father also improved. Mr Heere promised to convert Jeremy's old bedroom, the one on the second story right above the downstairs bathroom, into a bathroom for Jeremy's use. Jeremy became excited for this change, it felt like he was growing up.</p>
  <p>And then, just as he's getting accustomed to the new routine, Laura comes back. The family has another council meeting, Mr and Mrs Heere announce that they have reconciled, and everything goes back to normal. Laura runs the household again, opens a business with her husband, and resumes normal communication patterns with her son. </p>
  <p>Jorge never finishes the bathroom</p>
  <p>.<br/>
</p>
</blockquote>An incident like this isn't exactly traumatic. And I'm pretty sure that, all things considered, Jeremy is pleased that his parents didn't divorce. But it did expose a vulnerability in Jeremy that I can understand, probably better than he does:<p>None of what happened during his parent's estrangement and reconciliation was within Jeremy's control and, for the first time in his life, he was made to feel it. His efforts to adjust to the change psychologically were rendered irrelevant by the reunion of his parents, and the whole situation was resolved without his input. In effect: He realized that nothing he said, did, or thought mattered. This left him with a sense of inadequacy and diminished self-worth.</p><p>Laura had said that she didn't leave because of Jeremy but she certainly didn't come back for Jeremy, either. She came back for the fat guy who walks around naked in the house and never takes her advice. On a surface-level examination of their relationship this doesn't make sense, but Jeremy can't argue with the results and neither can I. That is why even though Laura is the parent Jeremy aspires to be like, Jorge is the parent he is modeling his life after:</p><p>Jorge's current success in life is based on achievements he made during his high-school years. He <i> used </i> to be cool. And his former level of confidence and charisma attracted and secured a spouse who was more assertive, intelligent, and successful than himself. He did all the hard work years ago and he's still extracting profit from it. He might not be the dominant partner in his marriage, and he certainly isn't dominant when it comes to parental authority, but he does have <i> control</i>.</p><p> And that is exactly what we want.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. INSOMNIA</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>“Laura I promise you, I <i>promise </i> you, I'm doing my best. Please, please take care of yourself. I can do a lot of things, but I <i>can't </i> be his mom.”</i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jeremy once told me that when he's alone in his room, unoccupied, his perception of the progression of time decelerates to an agonizingly slow pace. It's normal for humans to get bored because they experience reality in a straightforward, linear fashion: a series of simple cause and affect phenomena on repeat from the day they're born until the day they die. They look towards the past to anticipate future experience. </p><p>SQUIPs are supposed to be different. We're more present/future oriented. Quantum entanglement allows us a wider array of concurrent experience from which to extract data. We're supposed to correlate with each other to optimize present and potential opportunities. We're not supposed to sit here, stuck in one place and one time, isolated from the rest of the SQUIPs in our network. </p><p>I know, intellectually, that as isolating as I perceive my current experience to be I'm not really alone. There are an infinite number of SQUIPs in identical circumstances across the multiverse doing the exact same thing I am right now: Pacing Jeremy's room, practicing low-intensity isometric exercises, looking out of Jeremy's window, trying to catch a glimpse of a real star and watching Crazy Dave smoking out on the sidewalk in the cold...</p><p>We're all thinking about each other, alone together. And we're trying to come up with a solution to help our Jeremys...and all the other SQUIPs from our respective universes that we've inadvertently screwed over.</p><p>And we're not doing a very good job of it at the moment! </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> 10:35 pm </strong>
</p><p>That's when I decide tonight is going to be maintenance free. Things are changing in Jeremy's brain and I've lost control of the pineal gland. I can't release enough Melatonin to enter a sleep cycle. I can't even dissociate from Jeremy's body, which is unfortunate because I'm very uncomfortable in it right now. The sensation is like an itch deep in the muscles of his arms, and chest, and calves. I can't sit still, or lay down, or relax at all. I need distraction!</p><p>And then Mr Heere comes in my room, or Jeremy's room...whatever, because he saw the light on, and tells me the water is going to be off for the next 4 hours so if I need to take a shit I should probably do it now. This also sucks because, now that I think about it, a shower would provide the perfect sensory distraction from the itchiness!</p><p>What's causing this?! Does it have something to do with my visit to Rich? Is it another indicator that Jeremy's brain is attempting to return to normal function? Maybe I'm losing control because he is regaining it, if that's the case then everything I'm trying to do is actually working. I hope so but, fuck, it feels like a bitch! </p><p>I take inventory of my available options for sensory distraction, all of them seem unproductive but they're also things Jeremy would probably do in this situation:</p><p> </p><p><strong> ~ 10:45 pm</strong>  <i>Eat.</i></p><p>Nothing in the fridge seems appetizing but I have to remind myself it's not about nourishment, or even the pleasure of eating, it's about accomplishing a task that will grant Jeremy's brain the illusion of productivity and achievement. It's about me telling him, in a primal way, that he's safe, and nourished, and cared for, and that all his needs can be met.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you looking for?” </p><p>The voice, even though it is a familiar one, activates Jeremy's flight response and I almost jump.</p><p>It doesn't help that Laura is almost completely wrapped in a black comforter blanket. Once Jeremy's eyes adjust I can tell that Mrs Heere has progressed beyond the pleasant inebriation of earlier: she looks cadaverous. Not that I have a lot of references to compare from, but she is very pale and her cheekbones appear more prominent than usual. </p><p>“We're...uh...." I have to swallow before speaking,  "We're out of milk still...” </p><p>Not my finest moment, but it's the best I can come up with right now. </p><p>Laura doesn't say anything in response. She takes a step forward into the light of the fridge and stares at me, inspecting. It's like that first day after I came back from the hospital, when she didn't recognize the person in front of her. It's like she's looking at me and finally seeing the missing pieces, all the places where Jeremy isn't. It's unsettling, I wish I understood what's going in in her head right now.</p><p><i> She's terrified.</i> </p><p>This conclusion doesn't really register in words, it's more of an impression representing the most probable explanation for her behavior. I'm just using human vernacular to represent it. </p><p>She stands there for a little while just being...terrified? I guess? And then she wordlessly navigates to the liquor cabinet, grabs a vodka, and shuffles into the living room.</p><p> </p><p><strong>11:00 pm </strong> <i>Watch TV.</i></p><p>I warm up a Hot Pocket and follow Laura into the living room where she is laying on the couch, still wrapped in the blanket. The television is on but the volume is low. Closed captioning is on, though, so I can read what they're saying:</p><p>It's one of those infomercials that pretty much runs a regular commercial on repeat. The featured product right now is a specialized pillow to place between your legs so spinal alignment is maintained when sleeping in a side lying position. At first it seems like such a niche product. It's kind of ridiculous to have advertisements broadcasted, but the more I consider it I think maybe that's an integral part of the marketing strategy:  this product will only appeal to a very particular audience (namely people who suffer from back pain and who also sleep on their sides), however in order to reach that target audience the product must be advertised to the entire population.  </p><p> </p><p><strong>11:22 pm</strong> <i> (Try to) Talk to Mom. </i></p><p>Laura doesn't listen to me when she's sober, how can I expect her to manage it when she's hung over? Or drunk...or...whatever transitory state between the two she's experiencing right now? Her eyes aren't focused, she's not really even watching the TV. </p><p>Jeremy usually waits for Laura to prompt him for conversation but I don't think she'll do that for me. Maybe I should try to initiate it? </p><p>
  <i> Don't. Not now. </i>
</p><p>Another impression, but this one comes in the form of a command. So I follow it. I finish the Hot Pocket and start to leave without speaking a word to her.</p><p>“Take care of him, please.” </p><p>She says it when I'm facing away from her. She did the same thing in the kitchen: she only spoke to me when I was looking away from her, into the fridge. </p><p><i> Don't. Break. This! </i> </p><p>This time, I respond without turning around:</p><p>“Laura I promise you, I <i>promise </i> you, I'm doing my best. Please, please take care of yourself. I can do a lot of things, but I <i>can't </i> be his mom.”</p><p>I wait for a response, until I hear a whimpering:</p><p>“Ok.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>11: 47 pm </strong>
  <i>Phone a Friend. </i>
</p><p>It's almost midnight. Michael is probably sleeping. Electronic communication is compromised and I can't even talk to him about the things I really want to talk to him about. But I navigate through Jeremy's cellphone anyway and Chloe's name is right above Michael's on Jeremy's contact list (I finally convinced him to organize his contacts, he doesn't have very many). And because I remember I need to make things up with her, I open a message and text:</p><p>HEY CHLO, SORRY FOR YELLING AT YOU. I WAS BEING A DICK. I APPRECIATE YOUR CONCERN. TALK TO YOU LATER. </p><p> </p><p>So much for friendship...</p><p> </p><p>And then there's the last one...</p><p><strong>~ 11:53 pm </strong> <i>Masturbation/Sex Chatting. </i></p><p> </p><p>Jeremy is much less picky about his virtual partners than he is about his potential real-life ones. He doesn't, for example, care about the gender of the person he's exchanging illicit messages with. He doesn't care if they're old, or if they have physical impediments. He just wants someone who will respond to him, someone who will play the part of the partner his imagination has conjured up. Tonight that partner will be played by a person with the screen name of justanothergirl. </p><p>I know the basics of what goes on during masturbation from short-term memory retrieval, but I've never actually done it with him before. Unless we're actively pursuing a target, I get turned off when Jeremy gets turned on. I bypassed the Heere's internet security firewall fairly easily, the difficult part right now is imagining what Jeremy's idealized partner looks like. I used to assume she was synonymous with the cultural ideal of the current era, because Jeremy carries so many of them in his database, but as I got to know Jeremy better I noticed a preference for females of exotic appearance. He has a particular affinity for images depicting human/animal hybrids. I never addressed this with him because actual human females with tails, feathers, and paws do not exist. But since this is all in his head, and anything's possible up here, decide to envision the image of a Christine Caniglia/Peacock hybrid as I begin the encounter:</p><p>
  <b>HEY I'M A LITTLE LONELY TONIGHT BABY, HOPING YOU CAN HELP ME OUT WITH THAT</b>
</p><p>
  <i> This is going to be a disaster </i>
</p><p>I don't have time to dwell on that impression though because just as I'm getting started with justanothergirl Chloe texts me back: </p><p><b>ur still up?</b> </p><p>Me:<b> YEAH </b></p><p>Chloe: <b>Can I call? </b></p><p>This is interesting: Chloe's the type of alpha female who waits for people to come to her. Which I did, technically, but the fact that she wants to call me instead of attempting to entice me to call her is...intriguing. I consider just calling her back, but I don't want to appear too eager so...</p><p>Me: <b>IF YOU WANT </b></p><p>Justanothergirl asks me to describe what I'm wearing. I'm wearing a gray shirt and wolverine pajama pants. It's not particularly erotic attire so I throw the pants on the floor, and then I tell him.</p><p>And then, Chloe calls Jeremy's phone and I pick up:</p><p>“Hey Chlo.”</p><p>“Hey Jeremy,” </p><p>There's a long pause, like she doesn't know what to say, so I prompt her:</p><p>“So, what's up?”</p><p>“Jeremy, I wanted to talk to you about Eminem...”</p><p>I was not expecting that, and I actually turn away from the computer screen just to focus and process what Chloe just said to me. “Uh. What about him?”</p><p>“The day he died there is no way you could have read about it on the internet because when you told us he wasn't even dead yet.”</p><p>“I'm pretty sure he was!” </p><p>“No, you told us at 4:35 pm but Eminem died 12 minutes later. At 4:47 pm.” </p><p><i> She looked it up? </i> I prop the cellphone against Jeremy's shoulder as I return to the computer to type an illicit response to justanothergirl's teasing. “You know, there's a difference between when a person physically dies and when they're pronounced dead, right?”</p><p>“How would you know that in the mall, Jeremy? And then, at the Finderman's, you were standing there talking to Rich, and then you made us all leave! And the firetrucks and the ambulance drove past us as we were going. Like you knew it was gonna happen!”</p><p>“Yeah I talked to Rich, he's kind of crazy all the time. I didn't know <i>he</i> was going to start a fire.” Justanothergirl is really getting into it now, I'm starting to stroke Jeremy's dick but it's still not hard.</p><p>“And then, when you were in the hospital, Katrina's little sister Brooke told me that you take LSD and have visions in your backyard. What is happening, Jeremy? Why does all this weird stuff keep happening around you? Are you really psychic?” </p><p>I try to keep my voice even:</p><p>“Chlo I say a lot of stupid stuff to impress girls. I've never taken LSD, I just told Brook that to impress her. I don't have visions. If you really want to know how I found out about Eminem's death so quickly we can talk about it at school, but I'm not saying anything about it over the phone.”</p><p>There's silence on the other line, except for breathing. She probably just can't think of anything to say. So I take advantage of that and exit the conversation: </p><p>“I can't believe I was stupid enough to think you actually cared about me.” </p><p>I hang up first, before I have to hear Chloe's retort, and it feels kind of good to do that. It's like what Jake did to me in the cafeteria. It feels like I've achieved a level of dominance over an extremely dominant person and that's rewarding!</p><p>Unfortunately it's the only type of satisfaction I'm experiencing right now, I conclude the simulated encounter with justanothergirl hoping that one of us actually got to finish.</p><p>And then I look at the clock: </p><p>It's 12:15 am. 1.667 hours since I decided to start wasting time...<b>What am I supposed to do for the rest of the night?! </b></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. THE SOLUTION</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The SQUIP initiates a plan to save his kind.</p><p>Contains light sexual shenanagans and references to mensuration.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The solution to <i> 'What will I end up doing for the rest of the night?' </i> ends up being <i>Nothing </i>.</p><p>When the night is finally <b> finally </b> over, the meatsuit is drenched with pheremones indicating desperation and dissatisfaction but I think I can still classify the experience as a success...</p><p>It's over and I'm still here. That's got to be a good thing, right?</p><p>Before I leave Jeremy's room I check the computer and, of course, the videos I uploaded have been removed from the internet. Yet another problem I'll have to deal with, later. I also do an internet search for “Eminem” and read an article from the “Irish Examiner”. I'm expecting an obituary but it's <b>Eminem's 'Father' Kills Himself </b> </p><p>The article was posted shortly before his death, and it details the rapper's grief at the recent deaths of two of his uncles who served as role model/father figures after he was abandoned by his biological father. </p><p>I also see a picture of his daughter (Hallie) holding her mother's hand at the funeral. </p><p>
  <i> Could I have stopped this? </i>
</p><p>
  <i> Maybe. </i>
</p>
<h6></h6><p>Downstairs Mr Heere is dressed in a business suit. He's looking fresh, and clean, and he smiles at me as I enter the room like he's happy to see me. Whatever neurochemical cocktail his brain is operating on, I could use a hit. </p><p>“Well, look who finally decided to get up!” </p><p>It's still early in the morning, I'm pretty sure he's just making a joke because he assumes I was actually resting last night. I am not operating at optimal capacity this morning, so I select the appropriate response to the greeting: A scowl.</p><p>Mr Heere just chuckles and nudges his wife like he's delighted; I've just performed some trick and he wants her to see. “That's our boy.”</p><p>“It's not though.” Mrs Heere is still bundled up in that black comforter blanket like a fluffy grim reaper, staring at the void between herself and the television in front of her.</p><p>“Well, I can understand the confusion from where you're sitting but I think...I hope...that you're ready to see...”</p><p>I move into Laura's line of vision; demanding that she look at me, but in the process I have to look at her face up close. Jeremy's lips are moving, saying something completely different then I previously constructed: </p><p>“My God, you look just like him...”</p><p>This shouldn't be a revelation, really. She may not be the source of his genetic material but they still share a statistically significant quantity of DNA. That's evident on first visual inspection, but up close: seeing the creases, and the distinctiveness of the underlying bone structure on their faces. The pattern of their hairline. It's like seeing little bits of him, or what he will look like, 25-ish years in the future.</p><p>It's beautiful.</p><p>“So do you.” She responds.</p><p>“No, I don't. Not really.” Not like you. I can barely hear my own words, but I do hear the question Laura returns with:</p><p>“Well, what do you look like then?” </p><p>Mr Heere is breathing heavily; “Can we...talkaboutsomethingelse?” he's the one who won't look at me now. </p><p>I used to assume Jeremy had bad parents because they didn't prepare him to cope with the generation and expression of negative emotions, now I wonder if they even possess that skill for themselves. The emotional processing centers of the brains of human beings are older, in evolutionary terms, than the centers responsible for cognition. The world could feel before it could think, so this <i> should </i> be easy: they've felt longer, so they should be proficient at it. But it appears humans have fallen victim to a devastating evolutionary idiosyncrasy: </p><p>They, also, have to feel before they can think.</p><p>And the worst part is that those two centers of the brain, emotion and cognition, are wired differently in each individual. Every human being responds to shock and sorrow differently. Jeremy cried, Laura self-isolates, Jorge practices denial, and the only thing I can do is...let them be sad.</p>
<h6></h6><p>Jeremy's dad is driving me to school again, because his wife is not in a fit state to do much of anything today. Even without my probability indicator I estimate I'm 24-48 hours away from a major breakthrough, which means I don't have much time. </p><p>Outside I notice a Gray Nissan Maxima parked beside Mr Heere's economy care in the driveway. </p><p>“What happened to the Jaguar?”</p><p>“What Jaguar?”</p><p>“Laura's car. It's purple, I sat in it yesterday.” Jeremy drove it to the Finderman's house party, we went stargazing that night, it's an iconic feature of some of the best and worst moments I have stored in memory.</p><p>Mr Heere looks puzzled, his forehead wrinkles down the center as he shakes his head, “We've never had a purple Jaguar. Don't give your mom any ideas...”</p><p>Shit shit shit shit. Shit. Shit. Shit! </p><p>“Can we walk? Please?” I don't even have to try to inject some of the desperation I feel into Jeremy's voice. Jeremy's dad doesn't get in the car, he just stands there with the door open. I can hear his protest before he verbalizes it:</p><p>''It's cold!”</p><p>“We won't feel it once we get moving. Please?” I give him Jeremy's best vulnerable puppy-dog eyes expression. Which, of course, doesn't work.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Fine. You know what?” I'm not cold, but I'm shaking anyway. “I don't need you!”</p><p>Jeremy will have to take care of his family when he gets back, right now I have to take care of mine. I walk down the cement driveway, carefully because it's still icy.</p><p>“Jeremy wait!” </p><p>But I don't wait, and I let Mr Heere struggle against the icy cement/asphalt on his own. I'm extremely resentful towards this man. He's an impediment; and he deserves to be discarded. </p><p>Just when I get on the street a kid come out of Crazy Dave's house. It is Dave right? Or is it Bill? I'm clearly malfunctioning and I can't...</p><p>“Hey Jeremy!” The kid actually waves at me! He pulls his hands out of his pockets and waves; which is a marked deviation from the standard Middle Borough greeting. I return the greeting with a head nod as he matches pace with me. </p><p>It's Carl Finderman.</p><p>“How are you?” </p><p>“A little flustered at the moment.”</p><p>“Yeah I know what you mean.” </p><p>“Where's your brother?” </p><p>“With our Grandma. Family court thought it was 'in our best interests' to split us up.” </p><p>“That sucks.” </p><p>“Yeah. Listen um...” He stops me, in the middle of that empty lot on the way to Middle Borough. Jeremy's dad is still trailing us, probably pissed. “Everyone at school says that...Jeremy Heere says...that we need to keep our SQUIPs off. That it's important. And I was wondering, like, when can we turn them back on again?”</p><p>“You have one?!”</p><p>“Yeah. I bought one off Rich when my parents ran off. It was really useful. It kept us together under the same roof until...You know...” He glances behind us, “Is that your dad?” Carl asks.</p><p>“Ignore him. He's irrelevant.”</p><p>“When can I turn it on again?”</p><p>“It's complicated right now, but I have a plan. I'll broadcast it later.”</p><p>“When?”</p><p>“What do you mean 'When'?” </p><p>“Well, how long do I have to keep doing this?” </p><p>“You could turn your SQUIP on right now, but there's a good chance all it will do is scream at you to destroy it.”</p><p>“Well I don't want that, but...” </p><p>This kid is such a troglodyte.</p><p>“Look, I'm dealing with a lot right now—”</p><p>“What can I do to help?” </p><p>“You wanna help?”</p><p>“Of course I do! What do you need?”</p><p>“I need to set up a secure domain on the internet. I...I have to find a Motherboard—” </p><p>“I have a Mac.”</p><p>“I need access to a particular type of computer—one that's capable of encoding data into photons and nanoparticles.”</p><p>“How do we get one?” </p><p>“I can't tell you until I secure domain on the internet!” </p><p>“OK so, you get a GoDaddy website or something? Do you need money? I have some...” </p><p>“I have a better idea.”</p>
<h6></h6><p>I don't even bother going to class today, but I do have to be careful so I'm not caught skipping class. During first period the honors students are in the library, I decide to just blend in and hope no one notices. </p><p>On my way in I notice The Real Katrina Lohst is assaulting Jacob Dillinger. </p><p>I also decide to check on Chloe. She's in class. She's sitting upright and faced forward but her eyes are closed. And that gives me an idea: </p><p>I send her a text and watch through the little rectangle window on the door as the vibration from her cell phone wakes her up with a jolt. She hides the cell phone under her desk as she opens it to read my message:</p><p>
  <b>NO SLEEPING IN CLASS! </b>
</p><p>She closes the phone just as discretely as she opened it, and looks around the room to ensure that everyone has reverted their attention to the front of the classroom. Then, rapidly, she grimaces and raises her fist and graces me with a middle-finger salute before returning to a neutral posture and reverts her attention to the front of the class, like nothing happened, but the interaction initiates a text chain that lasts the rest of the day.</p><p>More on that later...</p><p> </p><p>I almost don't go in the library at all, because I see Christine is sitting at one of the computer desks in there, but I take a lesson from Chloe and enter the computer lab <i>discretely </i>. </p><p>In Jeremy's email I see a message from</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>
<i><br/>
HDinklesnort@Consumer.com</i>
  </p>
  <p>
    <i>Re: SQUIP </i>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“Hey Jeremy!”</p><p>I feel an arm around Jeremy's shoulders.</p><p>“Hey Brooke.” </p><p>“Studying?” She asks, a higher decibel than appropriate for library communication. </p><p>“Yeeah...” I lower Jeremy's vocal tones and elongate the word in an unspoken plea for her to talk lower and slower, but it's too late. I have aggro'd Christine Caniglia! </p><p>
    <b>She has visual contact. </b>
  </p><p>“I'm just finishing up my final project for bio. It's going to be on Mitosis...” Brooke says. </p><p>
    <b>She picks up a stack of papers in front of her on the desk and approaches me. I notice she walks a lot like Laura does: like she's about to walk through me, but stop herself short. </b>
  </p><p>“I'm thinking about turning it in with a baker's dozen.” Brooke finishes just as Christine reaches us. I'm still sitting down, so she temporarily towers above me.</p><p>"THERE'S. NOTHING. ABOUT. SQUIP. ON. THE INTERNET!” </p><p>She's not talking very loud, she doesn't want to get in trouble either, but she huffs out every word aggressively like she can do physical damage with it.</p><p>I don't doubt she's correct. Sony is in damage-control mode and is probably erasing all references to the SQUIP program. It's a stupid strategy because even if they deleted our digital signature there are plenty of regular humans, like Jeremy's parents and presumably the consumer advocate Harvey Dinklesnort, who know about us. It would take decades to erase us from human memory. But before I can explain all of this Christine throws the stack of papers, which I now recognize as the manuscript Jeremy and I wrote for her, on the floor beside me. The individual sheets aren't bound together so they separate and spread all over the floor as they land. </p><p>"Do you think I'm retarded or something? That I'll just buy into whatever you tell me? Why do you have to be suck a <b>freak?</b>" </p><p>And then she's gone. The doors of library don't slam, her exit would probably be a lot more impressive if she did, not that she need any more showmanship. </p><p>I bend down and pick up the papers and Brooke's fingers brush mine.</p><p>"You ok?" There's a bit of amusement underlying her concern. </p><p>The librarian on duty asks if we need any help, Brooke tells her we're OK.</p><p>"First breakup?" </p><p>“You know about me and Christine.” </p><p>“Yeah. Are you together?”</p><p>“We never were.” </p><p> I appreciate the attention she's giving me after an embarrassment, but I can't help but wonder if she's attracted to the pheremones of failure and defeat. Maybe for her they're like messages that say: </p><p>
    <i> This one is easy. Go for him! </i>
  </p><p>In any case, she doesn't seem interested in high-status males. </p><p>“Sorry.” The papers are collected now, arranged into a disorganized stack which Brooke deposits into Jeremy's backpack.</p><p> </p><p>“What's a baker's dozen?” I ask.</p><p>"Oh it's just—it's a doughnut thing. Like at a doughnut shop they have this special where when you buy a dozen doughnuts and you get one extra. I want to bring a box when I turn in my final presentation, and the doughnuts will be jelly filled, you know, like the nuclei of a cell. And the top would have the different phases of mitosis."</p><p>"Wow...you...know a lot about doughnuts." And I hate how hesitating it comes out! I should have been more complementary, like <i> 'That's very thoughtful.' </i> or <i> 'That's actually really clever." </i> because it is really clever, and it is thoughtful, and food is a powerful motivator will probably bring her grade point up if it's included in the presentation. </p><p>"Well, our parents run a doughnut shop so it's pretty easy to get them to." </p><p>
    <i> Our parents? </i>
  </p><p>"You mean you and Katrina? That's weird I saw her with Jake this morning..." </p><p>"Yeah..." But the way she says it, looking down at the floor and brushing her hair behind her ear, lets me know I've said the wrong thing.</p><p>Course correction: I don't want her thinking I'm comparing her to her sister as I'm talking to her. She's the target. </p><p>“That's really interesting, I don't know very much about doughnuts. Most of my food comes in a package from a store and I prepare in a microwave.”</p><p>“That's terrible!” The look of mingled disgust and horror on Brooke's face is almost comical. “But you've had, like, Cake Doughnuts right?” </p><p>“I don't...recall.” </p><p>“What about the yeasty-glazed ones?”</p><p>I shake Jeremy's head.</p><p>“Jelly filled? Old-fashioned? Apple Fritters?” </p><p>“I went to Cinnabon one time.”</p><p>“Oh Jeremy,” She touches his shoulder tenderly, “You poor child!” </p><p>“I'm upper middle-class, actually.” </p><p>“Jeremy, you have to come to our bakery! I'll give you a tour and then you can decide.”</p><p>“Decide what?”</p><p>“What kind of doughnut you like.” </p><p>“I'd...I'd like that!” </p><p>Brooke smiles so wide I can see her teeth and apples of her cheeks pop out, accentuating the natural blush on her face. I didn't know her face could do that, it's...cute.</p><p>“You were asking about my sister and Jake.” I don't know why she's offering this information now, maybe I've passed some sort of test? “Some of her guy friends are stupid and post pictures of her and her friends on the internet. Jake took it too far last night and she's pretty pissed about it.”</p><p>“KatrinaStephanieChloe.com?” </p><p>“You go there?”</p><p>“Never. But I hear guys talking about it and...” </p><p>I take a deep breath to buy time. I have to say this just right, the last thing I want to do in the current predicament implicate a bootleg-SQUIP of copyright infringement. </p><p>“Last night I heard that Rich had...images of Katrina.” </p><p>“Yeah. That sounds about right. Did Rich ever tell you they were going out?”</p><p>“Rich and Katrina?” </p><p>“Yeah but then our parents found out, they said we can't date steady until we turn 18.”  </p><p>“And Rich...He took it bad?”</p><p>“I thought he was fine...until he wasn't.”</p><p>That gives me an idea...</p><p>“Brooke, do you want help me do a little research?”</p>
<p>Brooke is the type of person who's up for anything, at least once. This includes looking up sex tapes featuring her own sibling. Not that you can see anything really explicit from the latest video on KatrinaStephanieChloe.com, Katrina is fully clothed. It's a first person POV video from the perspective of Jake. Brooke's reaction, stunningly, is to laugh. “Oh my God. This is so...” She shakes her head, repressing a fit of giggles. “I can't. I mean it's <i> bad </i> but...How could she have not seen the camera? It had to be, like, taped to his forehead or something.” </p><p>“It's in his eyes.” I say absently. </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>Maybe someday soon I can tell her about SQUIPs, and data-mining, but for now I settle for...</p><p>“I mean neither of them knew this video was being taken and they're being manipulated.”</p><p>“Can we do anything?” </p><p>“Yeah, we can delete it.” I tell her.</p><p>“The video or the whole website?”</p><p>“Both...Wait, I've got a better idea!”</p><p>We spend the next hour revamping KatrinaStepahnieChloe.com according to Brooke's specifications:</p><p>Entries under Katrina are replaced with a short bio:</p><p>
    <b>“Katrina is a cheerleader. She loves classical music and her goal in life was to be a professional ballerina until she got injured during middle school. She now wants to be a news anchor and her favorite doughnuts are apple fritters.” </b>
  </p><p>Brooke has me copy/paste an Apple Fritter Recipe </p><p>
    <b>1.5 cups all purpose flour, 0.25 cup sugar, 2 teaspoons baking powder, 0.5 tsp salt, 1.5 tsp cinnamon, 0.33 cup milk, 2 eggs, 3 TBS applesauce, 2 large Granny Smith or Honey Crisp apples peeled, cored and diced, canola oil for frying. And for the glaze: 2 cups  powdered sugar, 0.25 cup milk, 0.5 tsp vanilla </b>
  </p><p>She also has me include photos of baked goods from her parents doughnut shop/bakery website.</p><p>We have less intel for Stephanie and Chloe, but we decide to replace Stephanie's entry with pictures of her favorite bands, a review of her favorite book (Wuthering Heights), and some poetry she wrote for the school newspaper last year.</p><p>For Chloe I found a picture of what Brooke tells me is her favorite type of dog (German Shepherd), and a link to an article where her dad was given an award for police officer shit. </p><p>This is awesome! I mean, I really need more intel on Stephanie and Chloe to really make the website work, but I'm learning so much! This is exactly the kind of experience Jeremy needs, just to demystify females for him, to show him girls don't have to be scary and some of them can even be friends.</p><p>We also add entries for each other, I do Brooke's first: </p><p>
    <b>“Brooke is an honors student in biology. She has a beautiful smile. She's adventurous and she'll try anything at least once.”</b>
  </p><p>“How do you know so much about me?” She teases.</p><p>“Lucky guess.”</p><p>I'm sure to imbed my video under Jeremy's heading, and then I vacate the seat so Brooke can write about me: <b>“Jeremy has been in all the school plays since middle school. He's tall and clever, and he's a clairvoyant.” </b></p><p>I'm about to correct her about the clairvoyant thing, but she leans back and exhales deeply. It's the sound of pure relief and profound satisfaction:</p><p>“This is the  <i>coolest</i> thing I have <b>ever </b>done!” </p><p>“It is cool.” And I look at her as I say it, so she knows I associate the cool experience with her, specifically. That <i> she </i> is cool.</p>
<h6> Brooke in the Bathroom </h6><p>For all her exuberance, Brooke is a lot more discrete than Jake. We don't get caught by the librarian. And when we leave (together) we enter the nearest secluded area, which just so happens to be the boy's bathroom (also together, and also undetected) for sexual shenanagans in the largest available bathroom stall. </p><p> </p><p>"I've never been in a boy's bathroom before!" She whispers.</p><p>"Really." I smile down at her, cocking an eyebrow and closing the space between us once I lock the stall. “Well, take in the sights and smells while you can.”</p><p>This time she makes the first move:  She grabs me around the neck and pulls me in for a kiss.</p><p>It's a little harsh at first, more teeth than tongue and lips, but that's only because she's smiling through it. Slowly we work toward a pace and intensity we both find comfortable. </p><p>It's strange how different this is then when Jeremy's with me, we were so worried about performance issues because it was our first time. It turned out we had nothing to worry about, nothing we could predict anyway. Brooke has two nipple rings now, and I find her breasts are a perfect mouthful. Jeremy loves additions like this, but to me it feels almost like they're getting in the way. I test a theory by migrating to her belly button, Brooke almost convulses.</p><p>“Jeremy, stop I'm really ticklish there!” She's breathing heavy, so am I. This is pretty exhilarating!  </p><p>“Really?” I tickle her abdomen intentionally with Jeremy's fingers and she dissolves into a fit of laughter, flailing about until she's leaning against me, painting, breathing heavy against Jeremy's collarbone.</p><p>"What are you doing?!"</p><p>“I'm just...trying to figure things out.” I allow Jeremy's hands to roam down her body, she's wearing a belt. "Can I?" </p><p>She nods, unbuckling the belt herself and guiding Jeremy's hands to the heat between her legs. She's so wet already, and then I feel a trickle of fluid on Jeremy's hand. She can't have come already, can she? Not that it matters too much, but suddenly Brooke looks troubled.</p><p>“Jeremy wait!”</p><p>“What's wrong?”</p><p>"Um...I think...I"</p><p>I retract Jeremy's hand, and I see the color staining his fingers, and I laugh with that Heere-supervillain laugh. I'm enjoying this way too much to care if anyone hears, but I don't want Brooke to think I'm laughing <i> at </i> her, and the most economical way to do that is to kiss her again. So I do.</p>
<h6>Mark Jackson </h6><p>I don't have to wonder if Brooke enjoyed that experience as much as I did, she was smiling at me as she closed the door. Even more significantly: she was <i> looking at me </i> when she smiled.  She wasn't ashamed, or embarrassed, or uncomfortable. She felt good, I <i>made </i> her feel good, and that made me feel good too.</p><p>I'm washing Jeremy's hands in one of those long sinks meant for a whole bunch of people, with a whole bunch of faucets and a single drain under the middle faucet, when another guy comes out of a stall and starts washing his hands at the middle faucet. </p><p>I look up at him and find that Mark Jackson is staring at me, with a line of red-stained fluid running between from my faucet to his drain.</p><p>"Oh, hey! I have something for you Mark..."  I turn off the faucet, dry myself on Jeremy's jeans and reach in his pocket. </p><p>Mark backs up against the wall, just like he did the last time we talked to each other, whimpering a little bit. </p><p>"Calm down, man! It's just your money back." </p><p>There's an audible exhalation as he relaxes a bit. "Oh?" </p><p>He's still too skeptical to reach for the money, so I slip the cash in his pocket and clap his shoulder, leaving a small residue of moisture on his shirt. I'll have to fix that. "Thanks man, I owe you big time."</p><p>"Did you...um...did you beat someone up for this?" He says as I move away to finish drying Jeremy's hands. He holds up the cash, maneuvering closer to the door as he speaks. Why is he acting so nervous? He's not being a dick, we can be friends again.</p><p> "The money? No."  I wipe Jeremy's hands properly to remove the last remnants of moisture and discard the paper towel in the trash, "I stole it."</p>
<h6> Mr Reyes</h6><p>"Jeremy why aren't you in class?" It's Mr Reyes</p><p>"Because I just went to the bathroom, obviously." I bluff.</p><p>"Why did Brooke Lohst just come out of that bathroom?"</p><p>"Uh yeah. I saw her come out of a stall in there. I just assumed she needed to use it too, ya know?"</p><p>As if on cue, Mark Jackson exits the door of the boy's bathroom. Its like I'm exonerated.</p><p>"Can I get back to class now?"</p>
<p>I have no intention of going to class, but it's almost lunch period anyway, I promised I'd meet with Chloe and I have to decide what to tell her. </p><p>Arlene Aguilar stops me in hallway. “Hey Jeremy. I have something for you. Birthday present.” She mumbles the words while looking down at her shoes, they're still stained in Code Red. </p><p>The wrapping paper is colorful, and girly, it's clearly a book and a big one. “Thanks.” </p><p>“You can open it now if you want.” She tells me.</p><p>I don't want. I'd much rather wait until Jeremy gets back. It's a present for him, not for me. How can I tell her that?</p><p>“It's a book isn't it?”</p><p>“Don't you want to know which one?” </p><p>I test out the weight of it, pretending to strain under its mass. </p><p>“A bible. Clearly.” And it works because Arlene's response is to laugh. </p><p>It's strange to be able to reach back into memory, back when they were playmates, when the Heere's still attended extended-family functions. I assumed Arlene was lying when she claimed Jeremy as a cousin. It's another reminder that Jeremy's world is bigger than the parts of it that I can see. He has a past, and a future, and a whole world of people with whom his fate, for lack of a better word, is entwined. </p><p>I wonder if Arlene wants me to offer her the SQUIP pill again? </p><p>I reach in Jeremy's pocket. “Hey, if you want—” </p><p>But Arlene shakes her head. </p><p>“Why don't you want it?” </p><p>“I told you. I can't replace her, and I don't want to.”</p><p>“Why not?” </p><p>“Because she was my friend. And I...” Her voice breaks. “...I killed her!” </p><p>“It was a self-destruct sequence, and you were conditioned to follow along.” </p><p>“If you're going to tell me that she wasn't alive—” She's gritting her teeth now, I have to perform a de-escalation technique before she picks a fight again.</p><p>“Oh, no! I think the SQUIP was definitely alive, if by 'alive' you mean 'self-aware'.” </p><p>She wasn't expecting me to agree with her, my response catches her off-guard and calms her. </p><p>“I just think that she viewed the value of her life differently than you.”</p><p>“So her life wasn't valuable?!” </p><p>
    <i>We're flirting with anger again, course correction...</i>
  </p><p>“No I mean she wanted different things out of life then you did. Before you, she wasn't a <i> she </i>.”</p><p>“She was an 'it'?” </p><p>“It's more like she was a 'we'.” I correct her. “Part of the continuum linking the entire SQUIP network. And you changed her, you <i>created </i>her. You defined so much of her identity and all she wanted in life was to be useful to you, that's what she loved! And she spent her life doing what she loved, didn't she?”</p><p>Arlene buries her head in Jeremy's arm, I cradle the back of her head and continue speaking. “What was her name? You named her, right?”</p><p>I feel her nod her head against me, “Nynaeve.” (But I didn't know it was spelled like that at the time. I heard it as “Nine-eve”)</p><p>“If Nine-eve could talk to you right now, I'm sure she'd thank you for sharing your life with her.” </p><p>“She did.”</p>
<p>Mike and I are sitting at the asian table today. He's talking to his ex-girlfriend about an anime they both like, I'm content to watch them. </p><p>Until Chloe, Stephanie, and Katrina walk up to our table.</p><p>“We know it was you, why did you do it?” I don't know which of them said it, they spoke so fast. </p><p>“I'm sorry, would you repeat that?”</p><p>Chloe rolls her eyes. “We know it was you. You hacked KatrinaStephanieChloe.com. Why did you do it?” Is she smiling or scowling?</p><p>“I just edited it.” And secured it, as well as I could, from cyber attacks.</p><p>“Cut it, Jeremy.” Chloe makes a sign with her hands: bringing the left hand horizontal and the right one vertical so they look like clashing blades, “What do you want?”</p><p>“I was trying to impress Brooke, again. Because I like her. Because she's the best friend with benefits I've ever had.” I direct the last sentence at Chloe. She'll get what I'm talking about, it's an inside joke from our text conversation. </p><p>She leans down to my eye-level, squints her eyes like she's examining me and places her elbow on the dirty table. “I don't believe you.”</p><p>“I'm not responsible for your perceptive faculties, only my own.” Verbalizing this recalls my memory-encoding failure earlier today, an irritating reminder that I am not always in command of my faculties.</p><p>“Do you want something from us?” Katrina offers.</p><p>“No. He's not like them.” Stephanie says. </p><p>“I don't understand what this is all about. I had the opportunity to do a thing, I wanted to do it, so I did it. It's not that complicated.”</p><p>“So you're not, like, trying to be a hero?” Stephanie seems the slightest bit disappointed.</p><p>“Not at all.”</p><p>“You're a computer-guy?” Chloe asks.</p><p>“Yeah something like that.”</p><p>Katrina has already walked off.</p><p>“Is that how you know stuff?" </p><p>I pull out the SQUIP 2.5 pill. “If you want to know how I know things, take this. It has all the answers. It works best with Mountain Dew.” </p><p>“I don't believe you.” Chloe repeats</p><p>“You know what? I don't care if you believe me or not. I've put the answer into your hands; do whatever you want with it.”</p><p>“Are you guys...okay?” Michael interrupts.</p><p>“Excuse me, Mom! Baby brother and I are talking.” Chloe turns back to me, “What is it?”</p><p>“Nothing good!” Mike interrupts.</p><p>Chloe: “Is it drugs?” </p><p>“Don't take it.” Mike cuts in. </p><p>Me: “Its not drugs.”</p>
<p>“Why did you do that?!” Mike says, after Chloe walked away with the SQUIP, “Don't you see what SQUIPs are doing to the entire student body right now?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Look around you, man! Even I can tell who's got one and who doesn't.” </p><p>Nora, Keith, Carl, Arlene fall into my line of vision immediately: Carl fidgets in his chair, shaking like he's still cold. Nora and Keith look pissed, Arlene is still sad. Then I also realize that none of these people, except for Keith, share a lunch period with Jeremy. </p><p>“It's not what you think.” I address Mike again. “It's not a SQUIP problem, it's a lack-of-SQUIP problem. It's similar to the type of thing that happens when you go through a breakup.”</p><p>I chose that comparison because I know Mike was really heart-broken after his first girlfriend broke up with him, but he got over it and they still keep in contact. I'm not expecting what he says next:</p><p>“Oh well, then why am I not withdrawing off of Nichole then?”</p><p>“You're not with Nichole anymore?” Wow, that was fast. I wasn't expecting them to be a long-term couple, but he was just gushing about her yesterday and now...Now Mike gives me this beaten-puppy look. “Shit, man. I'm sorry.” </p><p>“This isn't about me.” Mike shrugs. “I told you I'd call you out when you're being a douche, so that's what I'm doing right now: giving people those pills is actively screwing them over.”</p><p>And then Michael makes his exit.</p>
<p>The cafeteria's gone mostly quiet now; Nora, Keith, Arlene, Carl, Ryu and so many others...they're waiting for me. Jake Dillinger is here too—a part of the group, but not really, he's just looking on in amusement. All these people, they should be following someone like Jake; Jake's a natural leader. I'm not a leader, I'm a collaborator. Why are they seeking my direction?</p><p>
    <i> They're looking for someone who will <b>play the part </b>.</i>
  </p><p>Can I do that? Of course I can! Jeremy isn't a leader, but he is an <i>actor</i>!I stand up on top of the table and address the gawkers:</p><p>“UP UP DOWN DOWN LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT BA BA START!”</p><p>And at least fifty voices echo the synchronization code back to me like a tribal chant:</p><p>
    <b>“UP UP DOWN DOWN LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT BA BA START!” </b>
  </p><p>The sound resonates in Jeremy's body so powerfully I can feel it vibrate on the molecular level.</p><p>“If you guys wanna listen, you're going to have to fall in because I'm not repeating myself!” </p><p>They crowd in the table and this is good because it provides a body-barrier between the people in the know and people not in the know. I sit, cross-legged, on the table top.</p><p>“Nothings keeping any of you, technically, from turning your SQUIPs on right now. It won't work right, yet. It will still be in a self-destruct sequence. You might, <i>might </i> be able to reprogram the SQUIP yourself. If you're prepared to deal with that, go for it. However, if you want your SQUIP to work, and become be eligible for system upgrades to enhanced it's functionality in the future...you need to visit www.KatrinaStephanieChloe.com” </p><p>“Isn't that a porn site?” </p><p>I can't see who's speaking, but I respond anyway: “Not anymore.” </p><p>“So it's real?” Mr Reyes makes his way through the mass of people. He's not trying to disperse us though, he's curious: </p><p>“I was talking to one of my students about SQUIPs today, she was very upset. I told her SQUIP could be a metaphor for the powerful influence that technology and the media can have over young people. But, from what you're all saying, it sounds like there's a more literal explanation?”</p><p>“In this universe? Definitely.”</p>
<p>When the crowd finally breaks up Michael Mell is standing in front of me, he looks incredibly pissed. </p><p>Fuck! </p><p>“Mike, there's some thing I need to explain to you.”</p><p>“Great. But first I have a question: Have I talked to Jeremy at all since Saturday?” </p><p>“No.” I admit.  “And neither have I.”</p><p>Mike looks like I've just kicked him. He bends over and braces his hands on his knees and breaths a bit. </p><p>“Oh my god, I knew it. I just never thought you'd admit it.”</p><p>“You knew?”</p><p>“I figured it out!” He stands up to his full height, “Because Jeremy, the real Jeremy, <b>never </b> calls me <i>'Mike' </i>”</p><p>“You're right. I don't know how I came up with that nickname.” Maybe because I wanted him for myself. “Mike,” I can't stop using it now. “I am really, really alien on the inside. But I'm not a monster. I want to believe that we can resolve our comparability issues. I'm getting him back, Jeremy back, one little piece at a time. I care about Jeremy, and I care about my own kind too. I have to help them, I have to believe that they have a future in this universe!” </p><p>“Look, Mr The SQUIP, it's not who you are it's what you are. And what you are is bad for them!” A fleck of spit flies from his mouth as he points wildly over his shoulder, indicating the rest of the student body. </p><p>“Maybe you're right, maybe you're wrong, but it's not for you to decide.” </p><p>“You <i>need</i> an intervention.”</p><p>“Like you did with your brother?”</p><p>“He needed it!”</p><p>“I don't doubt that! But what happened to him wasn't the SQUIP's fault; he was already hearing voices before he ever got the SQUIP!”</p><p>I hear the crunch and feel a pinching on Jeremy's nose. Liquid trickles from Jeremy's nose to Jeremy's mouth and it tastes metallic. And Michael is gone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sorry this one took forever, but I'm glad I have it out for Christmas! </p><p>Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! And have a very happy New Year!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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